IP 

f  IIS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    LIFE 


OF 


DOUGLAS    JEEEOLD. 


BY  HIS  SON, 

W.   BLANCHAED    JERROLD. 


WITH    PORTRAIT. 


LONDON : 
BRADBURY ,   AGNEW,  &  CO.,  BOUYERIE  ST. 


lontok  : 
erabburv,  aonew,  &  co.,  printers,  whitefriars. 


ekatton. 


1     LAY    THIS    RECORD 

OF  A  LIFE   SHE   SHARED   AND   SWEETENED, 

WITH    ALL     DUTIFUL    AFFECTION, 
AT 

MY    MOTHER'S    FEET. 


■  To  D.  W.  J. 

"  When  I  behold  the  false  and  flatter'd  state 
Which  all  ambition  points  at,  and  survey 
The  hurried  pageants  of  the  passing  day, 
Where  all  press  on  to  share  a  fleeting  fate, 
Methinks  the  living  triumphs  that  await 
On  hours  like  thine,  might  tempt  the  proud  to  stay. 
For  on  a  green  and  all  unworldly  way, 
Thy  hand  bath  twined  the  chaplet  of  the  great, 
And  the  first  warmth  and  fragrance  of  its  fame, 
Are  stealing  on  thy  soul.     The  time  shall  be 
When  men  may  find  a  music  in  thy  name, 
To  rouse  deep  fancies  and  opinions  free  ; 
Affections  fervid  as  the  sun's  bright  flame, 
And  sympathies  unfathom'd  as  the  sea. " 

Laman  Blanch ard  (1824). 


PEEFACE  TO  THE   SECOND  EDITION. 


Since  the  first  edition  of  this  life  was  put  forth,  troops  of 
friends  have  sent  me  additions  and  corrections.  Moreover, 
I  have  obtained  my  father's  letters  addressed  to  Lam  an 
Blanchard,  and  the  correspondence  of  Blanchard  with  Lord 
Lytton,  with  Messrs.  Leigh  Hunt,  Thomas  Hood,  Charles 
Dickens,  Macready,  Robert  Browning,  Ainsworth,  John 
Forster,  and  Louisa  Stuart  Costello,  and  others  whose 
names  are  musical  in  the  world's  ear.  I  have  condensed, 
re-arranged,  and,  I  trust,  much  improved  this  record  of  a 
life  that  it  has  been  my  anxiety  throughout  to  lay  fully  and 
truthfully  before  the  world,  satisfied  that  the  fullest  light 
will  bring  the  fullest  honour  to  the  revered  subject. 

It  has  been  a  source  of  great  comfort  to  me,  amid  much 
suffering  from  unhandsome  criticism,  to  receive  from  many, 
whose  friendship  and  opinion  were  dear  to  my  father,  and 
are  dear  to  me,  the  assurance  that  I  have  not  wholly  failed 
in  the  difficult  filial  duty  I  have  paid  to  my  father's  memory. 
A  pile  of  letters  lies  before  me.  Warmest  among  them  is 
that  of  Mr.  Dickens,  who,  at  an  early  moment,  took  occa- 
sion to  print  his  opinion.*     Another  of  my  father's  friends 

*  "In  closing  this  brief  sketch  of  the  career  of  a  dear  and  an  honoured 
f  II  w-labourer,  we  must  not  forget  to  say  a  farewell  word  of  sincere  con- 
gratulation to  Mr.  Blanchard  Jerrold,  on  the  admirable  spirit  in  which 
lie  has  given  his  father's  life  to  the  world.  The  book  is  most  frankly, 
most  affectionately,  and,  as  to  its  closing  passages,  most  touchingly  written, 


viii  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

writes  :  "  I  have  this  night  finished  the  perusal  of  your 
father's  life,  and  I  cannot  resist  the  impulse  to  write  and 
thank  you  for  the  sweet  and  melancholy  pleasure  it  has 
filled  me  with.  You  had  a  most  difficult  task  to  perform, 
but  you  have  performed  it  well — with  a  simplicity  and 
truthful  earnestness  that  I  feel  certain  will  ensure  it  a 
marked  place  in  biographical  literature.  The  thing  that  has 
pleased  me  most  particularly  is,  that  you  have  shown  the 
world — and  that  incontestably — what  a  tender,  loving  soul 
your  father  was.  To  those  who  knew  him  intimately  he 
never  inspired  the  slightest  repellent  feeling.  As  for  myself, 
there  were  many  and  constant  occasions  on  which  I  could 
with  difficulty  refrain  from  throwing  my  arms  round  him 
and  hugging  him  to  my  heart,  as  I  would  a  tender  and 
affectionate  woman — and  he,  the  only  man  I  have  ever  met 
with  who  inspired  me  with  the  same  feeling.  I  have  often 
had,  with  strangers  to  him,  to  combat  the  notion  that  he 
was  of  a  bitter  and  cynical  temper  and  disposition,  and  I 
am  heartily  glad  that  a  testimony  to  the  contrary  has  been 
given  to  the  world  none  can  contravene,  for  it  bears  internal 
evidence  of  truth.  It  is  possible  you  may  think  me  some- 
what intrusive  in  thus  addressing  you  ;  but  having  had 
strong  evidence  to  prove  to  me  I  held  a  place  in  your 
father's  esteem  and  confidence,  I  have  thought  it  not  un- 
likely you  might  not  feel  displeased  at  hearing  the  effect 
your  book  has  produced  upon  one  of  his  sincerest  friends 
and  admirers."  The  good  words  of  strangers  crowded  upon 
me.  "Although  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  I  cannot  help 
offering  my  congratulations  on  your  production  of  the  '  Me- 
lt is  good  as  the  record  of  a  literary  life  :  it  is  still  better  as  a  tribute  to 
the  memory  of  a  father,  offered  by  the  love  and  duty  of  a -son." — Household 
Words,  February  5th,  1859. 


PREFACE  TO  THE   SECOND  EDITION.  ix 

moirs  of  Douglas  Jerrold.'  I  have  read  the  volume  with 
intense  pleasure.  I  was  personally  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Bigg  and  Dr.  Crucifix  mentioned  in  your  book,  and  which 
brought  to  my  remembrance  many  circumstances  of  '  days 
gone  by.'  The  last  chapters  are  full  of  pathos  and  beautiful 
sentiment."  Working  men  wrote  to  me  by  the  score.  A 
power-loom  weaver  says  :  "  It  is  for  the  use  to  which  your 
father  has  applied  his  cultivated  talents  that  I  would  pay  my 
homage  at  the  shrine  of  his  worth  and  services  to  '  The 
Order  of  Poverty,'  to  which  I  belong.  When  he  died  I,  for 
one,  felt  that  Wrong  had  an  enemy  less,  and  Right  had  lost 
a  friend.  Permit  me,  sir,  earnestly  and  affectionately  to  lay 
this,  though  humble  and  uncultured,  perhaps  not  altogether 
scentless  flower,  upon  the  grave  of  Douglas  Jerrold." 

But  I  cannot  refrain  from  printing  the  opening  parts  of 
this  letter,  because  it  faithfully  expresses  the  sentiments 
which  working  men  of  all  parts  have  addressed  to  me,  in 
memory  of  one  who  was  their  independent  and  manly 
champion  :  "  I  have  lately  read  '  The  Life  of  Douglas 
Jerrold.'  Permit  me  gratefully,  would  I  could  say  grace- 
fully, to  express  to  you,  as  the  author,  my  thanks  for  the 
more  than  pleasure  I  have  experienced  in  the  perusal.  Bat 
not  for  me  are  the  graces  of  literature — the  gift,  or  the  art, 
of  expressing  my  feelings  in  graceful  and  appropriate 
language.  The  atmosphere  of  a  cotton  mill,  which  I  have 
breathed  for  more  than  three  and  twenty  years,  out  of  the 
thirty-four  I  have  lived,  is  not  the  most  congenial  possible 
for  mental  culture.  Nevertheless,  I  have  cultivated  a  taste 
for  reading,  and  glad  am  I  that  I  have  done  so.  It  has 
enabled  me  to  cultivate  a  slight  acquaintance  with  some  of 
the  master-minds  that  shine,  star-like,  in  the  firmament  of 
time,  and  shed  the  cheering  influence  of  their  lustre  on  a 


x  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND   EDITION. 

life  of  toil  and  struggle.  Far  from  least  in  magnitude  and 
brightness  amongst  these  fixed  stars  is  your  honoured  and 
worthy  father.  As  I  read  the  record  of  his  struggles  and 
successes — his  unceasing  exertions  for  intellectual  develop- 
ment, his  unwearied  defence  of  the  weak  against  the  strong 
— I  felt  new  aspirations  born  within  me  from  the  inspiration 
of  his  example — I  felt  that  I  ought  in  duty  to  express  my 
acknowledgments  to  the  author.  And  yet  it  seemed  so 
much  like  presumption  on  my  part — like  intruding  myself 
unnecessarily  upon  your  time  and  attention — that  I  strove 
to  banish  or  suppress  the  desire.  But  it  came  back  again 
and  again.  It  rose  up  before  me  like  remorse  of  conscience 
for  neglect  of  duty.  I  write  at  last  with  a  sort  of  despera- 
tion to  rid  myself  of  this  phantom  idea,  which  has  haunted 
me  for  some  time  past,  and  which  seemed  to  say,  '  Write, 
write  to  Blanchard  Jerrold.  Be  yourself.  Tell  him,  as 
best  you  can,  what  you  think  about  his  noble  father  and  his 
noble  works.  In  all  my  reading  the  idea  of  writing  to  any 
of  the  authors  never  took  practical  hold  of  me  before.  For 
the  first  time  in  the  memory  of  my  reading  experience,  I 
have  met  with  my  ideal  of  what  a  written  life  should  be. 
*  *  *  The  province  of  biography  is  the  portrayal  of 
individuality.  In  the  volume  before  me  this  has  been 
accomplished  with  remarkable  felicity  and  a  vivid  distinct- 
ness that  seem  almost  tangible." 

In  obedience  to  requests  addressed  to  me  from  far  and 
wide  I  now  put  forth  this  second  amended  and  compressed 
edition  of  a  labour  of  love  ;  a  labour  that  has  wrought  me 
many  friends — and  many  unknown  ones — and  not  a  single 
enemy. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


I  have  fulfilled,  to  the  best  of  my  poor  ability,  a  very 
difficult  and  a  very  solemn  task.  Mr.  Carlyle  has  said  that 
a  well-written  life  is  almost  as  rare  as  a  well-spent  one.  My 
endeavour  has  been  to  set  forth  two  rarities  :  I  fear  I  have 
failed  in  the  production  of  the  well-written  life  ;  but  it  will 
be  sufficient  reward  to  me  for  the  anxiety  I  have  suffered  in 
this  performance  of  a  filial  duty,  if  I  have  proved  that  my 
father's  life  was  a  well-spent  one. 

It  is  possible  that  the  world  may  declare  that  I  have,  in 
the  following  pages,  set  an  unjustly  high  value  upon  my 
father's  works  ;  and  that  I  have  claimed  for  the  memory  of 
the  man  more  reverence  than  it  deserves. 

The  chief  writings  of  Douglas  Jerrold  have  been  now  for 
many  years  before  the  public ;  and  the  high  favour  which 
they  have  commanded  is  the  safeguard  of  that  place  in  con- 
temporary literature,  which  the  grateful  affection  of  a  son 
would  have  assigned  them,  under  any  circumstances. 

When  speaking  of  the  man — of  the  husband  and  parent — 
some  authority  is  due  to  me.  I  who  saw  my  father — the 
fine  subject  of  this  poor  picture  (which  I  set  before  the  reader 
with  a  grave  sense  of  shortcomings  in  the  execution  thereof) 
— daily  en  robe  de  chambre;  when  the  house-doors  were  closed 
upon  the  world — when  the  fear  of  critics  was  not — and  when 
the  natural  temperament  had  its  free  play — I  who  have  most 
solid  reason  to  be  grateful  for  many  sunny  years  passed  under 


xii  PREFACE  TO   THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

the  wise  and  tender  guidance  of  Douglas  Jerrold  at  home,  do 
venture  to  speak  somewhat  authoritatively  to  all  who  have 
slandered  him,  calling  him  cynic,  and  begetter  of  feuds  and 
ill-blood  between  poor  and  rich. 

I  might  have  filled  chapters  answering  trite  slanders — 
slanders  in  religious  papers  that  doubted  insolently  his 
Christianity — slanders  penned  by  penurious  scribes,  with  a 
wondrously  liberal  disregard  of  truth — slanders  carted  in  long 
articles  numbered  1,  2,  and  3,  and  sent  to  an  American  paper 
by  a  man  who  declared  that  he  was  a  friend  of  the  illustrious 
deceased,  and  had  therefore  a  few  mud  pellets  ready,  at  a 
goodly  sum  per  pellet,  to  throw  upon  his  grave.  I  have  put 
all  this  dirty  pillory- crowd  aside.  I  have  written,  upon  my 
father's  own  desk,  the  truth,  so  far  as  I  know  it,  about  him, 
at  home  and  abroad.  I  have  suppressed  nothing  for  the  in- 
dulgence of  family  vanity ;  and  beg  the  public  acceptance 
of  this  biography  in  the  faith  that  it  is  an  honest,  if  a  weak 
work. 

One  gentleman  has,  however,  written  to  The  Press,  an 
American  paper,  slanders  of  my  father,  so  elaborate  and 
wicked,  that  I  feel  bound  to  assure  any  readers  who  may  have 
read  them,  that  the  writer  was  not  in  the  list  of  Douglas 
Jerrold's  friends,  in  the  first  place ;  and,  in  the  second  place, 
that  his  statements  are  fabrications  ;  and  his  estimates  of 
the  writer's  private  character,  impure  speculations  not  based 
upon  personal  knowledge.  Even  facts  which  the  writer  might 
have  caught  correctly,  with  a  little  trouble,  are  mis-stated. 
Thus  my  father  is  said  to  have  written  Black-Eyed  Susan 
"  before  he  was  twenty-one  " — the  fact  being  that  the  dra- 
matist was  in  his  twenty-sixth  year  when  he  produced  this 
drama.  Then  the  American  public  is  informed  that  Douglas 
Jerrold  was  "  down "  upon  Mr.  Charles  Kean,  in  Lloyd's 
Weekly  Newspaper  till  his  death,  because  he  conceived  that 
Mr.  Kean  had  purposely  contrived  the  failure  of  the  Heart 
of  Gold.     The  fact  is  that,  after  this  piece  was  produced,  my 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION.  xiii 

father  never  wrote  a  Hue  about  Mr.  Kean  or  his  management, 
in  the  said  newspaper.  Douglas  Jerrold,  writes  the  scribe  in 
question,  "  was  easily  offended,  and  never  forgave."  How 
many  men  are  alive  to  contradict  this,  most  energetically  ! 
But  the  sting  of  the  series  to  winch  I  am  referring,  is  meant 
to  lie  in  the  assertion  that  "  Jerrold  only  ivrote ;  he  never 
did  anything  for  the  people."  Let  me  give  the  maligner's 
own  words  : — 

"  He  (Douglas  Jerrold)  used  to  say  that  for  the  first  twenty- 
five  years  of  his  life  he  was  perpetually  struggling  with  poverty, 
and  that  therefore  he  felt  for  the  poor.  Almost  at  a  bound, 
so  sudden  was  the  accession  of  literary  reputation  and  gain, 
he  rose  from  .£800  to  £3000  a  year.  Out  of  the  smaller  in- 
come he  could  not  indulge  in  charity ;  out  of  the  larger  he 
did  not.  *  *  *  How  his  large  income  slipped  through  his 
fingers  we  shall  not  too  curiously  inquire.  His  family  bene- 
fited very  slightly  by  it.  Jerrold  was  a  man  who  made  a 
point  of  being  extremely  and  constantly  liberal — to  himself." 
The  facts  given  in  the  following  pages,  and  the  many  wit- 
nesses of  my  father's  most  prodigal  charity,  will  suffice,  I 
trust,  to  cast  back  this  charge  in  the  writer's  teeth.  Perhaps 
however,  to  show  how  calmly  this  "  friend  "  gives  assump- 
tions for  truths,  it  would  have  sufficed  to  state  that  he 
alleges,  as  evidence  of  my  father's  "unpopularity,"  that 
"  year  after  year,  until  the  month  before  his  death,  he  was 
regularly  blackballed  at  the  Reform  Club."  My  father  was 
proposed  for  election  at  this  club  once,  and  once  only,  and 
was  elected. 

During  the  preparation  of  this  difficult  work,  I  have  been 
indebted  for  suggestions,  correspondence,  and  anecdotes,  to 
many  of  my  father's  old  friends.  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  and 
Mr.  John  Forster  have  kindly  afforded  me  the  opportunity  of 
referring  to  my  father's  letters  addressed  to  them  respec- 
tively ;  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon  has  given  me  some  valuable 
memoranda ;  and  Mr.  Wilkinson  has  enlightened  me  on  my 


xiv  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

father's  early  days  at  Cranbrook  and  Sheerness,  aided  by  the 
clear  memory  of  Mr.  James  RusselL  Mr.  Peter  Cunning- 
ham, Mr.  Horace  Mayhew,  Mr.  Kenny  Meadows,  Mr.  Shirley 
Brooks,  are  names  of  my  father's  friends,  who  have  been  of 
service  to  me.  But  I  can  recall,  happily,  many  old,  familiar 
faces,  that  have  been  grouped  about  me,  bringing  anecdotes, 
facetiae,  &c,  to  my  work.  To  one  and  all  of  these  I  beg 
here  to  tender  my  heartiest  thanks. 

If  the  world  will  still  obstinately  hold  that  my  father's 
was  of  those  natures  which  are  outwardly  "  cold,  cutting,  and 
sharp,"  they  will,  I  trust,  believe  that  it  was  also  of  those 
which  "in  their  common  inner  world,"  throb  and  labour 
warmly  and  tenderly — natures  which  Jean  Paul  likens  hap- 
pily to  "  lofty  palm  trees,  armed  with  long  thorns  against  all 
that  lies  below,"  but  filled  on  their  summits  "  with  precious 
palm  wine  of  the  most  vigorous  friendship." 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 
IXFAXCY     1 

CHAPTER   II. 

OX    BOARD    SHIP 22 

CHAPTER  III. 

ARRIVAL   IX    LOXDOX 33 

CHAPTER  IV. 

EARLY   FRIEXDSHIPS   AXD    MARRIAGE 47 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE   DOMESTIC   DRAMA 78 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  DOMESTIC   DRAMA   CONCLUDED 96 

CHAPTER  VII. 

EARLY   CONTRIBUTIONS   TO   PERIODICALS 122 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING    OF   THE   STAGE        .  .  .  .      ,      146 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IX. 
PUNCH  


PAGE 
1S4 


CHAPTER  X. 

MAGAZINES   AND   NEWSPAPERS 21 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DOUGLAS  JERROLD  IN  PUBLIC 2-9 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME      . ^40 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

OUT   OF   TOWN ^75 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
clubs 290 


CHAPTER   XV. 
THE  8th  OF  JUNE,  1857    ....  ...     306 


LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JEKEOLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INFANCY. 


In  the  year  1789  the  Dover  company  of  players  were  halted 
at  Eastbourne,  the  chief  actors  of  the  little  band  being  located 
at  the  Lamb  Inn.  On  a  certain  evening  in  this  year  a  star 
arrived,  and  inquired  for  -the  manager,  Mr.  Richland.  "  A 
very  shrewddooking  and  leather  handsome  lad  of  about  four- 
teen "  met  the  star,  and  conducted  him  into  the  managerial 
presence.  This  lad  was  the  son  of  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold. 
Mr.  Jerrold  was  an  important  member  of  the  company  ;  and 
seemed  to  derive  much  of  his  popularity  from  the  possession 
oi  a  pair  of  Garrick's  shoes,  which  he  wore  whenever  he 
appeared  on  the  stage.  "  I  still  see  the  delight,"  writes  Mr. 
Dibdin,  the  star  in  question,  in  his  autobiography,  "  with 
which  his  eyes  sparkled  when  he  exhibited  these  relics  of  the 
mighty  Roscius  to  me  for  the  first  time,  and  his  stare  of 
admiration  on  learning  that  the  'new  gentleman'  was  really 
and  truly  no  more  nor  less  than  a  genuine  godson  of  the 
immortal  G.  !  " 

More  than  half  a  century  after  the  poor  stroller,  Samuel 
Jerrold,  had  displayed  his  precious  shoes  to  the  bumpkins 
ibout  Eastbourne,  his  son  Douglas,  accompanied  by  his 
family,  went  to  this  quiet  place  to  enjoy  a  Bummer's  holiday. 

B 


2  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERItOLD. 

Here  a  poor  stroller  waited  upon  the  son,  and  asked  him 
to  give  his  patronage  to  the  little  theatre.  Douglas  Jerrold's 
"  bespeak"  was  put  forth  in  this  same  Eastbourne,  in  1851  ; 
and  the  patron  went  to  the  barn  with  his  family,  and  was 
posted  in  the  seat  of  honour — the  honour  being  marked  by 
a  little  red  cloth  thrown  over  the  front  bench.  Rafters, 
dark  and  ghostly,  overhead  ;  rows  of  greasy  benches  behind  ; 
and  a  woeful  stage,  with  dips  for  footlights,  were  not  en- 
couraging hints  as  to  the  nature  of  the  entertainment. 
Presently  a  boy  in  a  smock  frock  snuffed  the  dips,  and  then 
the  Love  Chase  was  played.  The  manager's  family  took  nearly 
all  the  parts ;  even  the  poor  old  chief  of  the  troupe,  blind  and 
worn,  was  led  on  to  sing  "Come  and  take  tea  in  the  arbour." 
In  1851  the  patron  of  the  evening  must  have  thought, 
"  Matters  theatrical  here  are  rude  enough.  What  must  the 
theatre  have  been  in  which  Dibdin,  and  my  father,  and 
Wilkinson,  performed  hereabouts  some  sixty  years  ago  ! " 

We  pass  back  from  1851  to  1789. 

Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold  was,  according  to  Dibdin,  not  only 
the  envied  proprietor  of  Garrick's  shoes — he  was  pi-inter  to 
the  theatrical  corps.  In  this  capacity  he  asked  the  new  star 
how  he  would  have  his  name  printed  in  the  playbills. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  facetious  Dibdin,  "  my  name  is  Norval." 

"  True,"  responded  Mr.  Jerrold,  "  upon  the  Grampian 
Hills  ;  but  your  real  name  1 " 

The  proprietor  of  Garrick's  shoes  was  not,  as  may  be 
inferred  from  this  retort,  always  "melancholy,"  as  Dibdin  has 
described  him.  His  son  Robert  was  even  energetic  and 
enterprising,  for  he  was  ready  to  take  a  midnight  walk  with 
Dibdin  from  Eastbourne  to  Brighton,  in  those  days  when  the 
roads  were  infested  with  highwaymen,  and  when  the  coast 
was  in  the  possession  of  smugglers.  The  ooject  of  Dibdin's 
journey  with  his  young  friend  Robert  Jerrold  was  to  see 
Reynolds'  tragedy  of  Werter ;  and,  perhaps,  to  embrace  Mrs. 
Dibdin,  who  happened  to  be  at  Brighton  at  the  time. 


INFANCY.  3 

The  travellers  left  Eastbourne  on  their  tramp  of  eighteen 
miles  as  the  clock  struck  midnight.  The  moon  cheei-ed  them 
with  her  "  tender  light,"  and  they  had  already  fortified  them- 
selves with  a  substantial  supper  at  "The  Lamb."  They 
reached  Seaford  in  safety,  and  without  having  had  an  adven- 
ture by  the  way.  But  at  this  point  of  their  journey  the 
moon  disappeared,  leaving  them  to  grope  along  a  barely 
distinguishable  road,  over  a  dreary,  cliff-bordered  down. 
The  comforts  of  the  Lamb  Inn  probably  rose  to  the  minds 
of  the  pedestrians.  They  had  yet  far  to  go,  through  that 
black  night,  under  the  ebon  shadows  of  tremendous  cliffs, 
through  deep  and  ghostly  crevices.  Suddenly  the  scene  was 
brilliantly  illuminated.  They  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
circle  of  signal  lights  that  flashed  along  the  seaboard. 
Smugglers  were  abroad.  Like  Nelson,  they  had  accepted 
the  dark  night  as  a  point  in  their  favour.  Dibdin  and 
Robert  Jerrold  had  now  reached  the  end  of  a  "gloomy 
defile,"  and,  as  they  followed  the  winding  of  the  road 
towards  the  sea,  they  were  suddenly  stopped  by  a  procession 
of  about  one  hundred  smugglers,  leading  about  two  hundred 
horses  laden  with  casks.  The  men  were  armed  to  the  teeth, 
ready  to  save  their  booty  with  their  lives.  Still  they  were 
jolly  fellows  it  would  seem,  and  at  once  insisted  upon  re- 
freshing the  travellers  with  a  little  "  godsend  " — the  name 
they  gave  to  some  very  excellent  brandy.  More — they 
insisted  upon  giving  Dibdin  a  ride  between  two  tubs  upon  a 
tall  black  mare,  and  upon  setting  "  little  Bob  Jerrold  "  astride 
a  cask  of  contraband,  on  the  back  of  a  Shetland  pony. 

In  short,  smugglers  were  never  jollier  nor  bolder  on  the 
boards  of  the  Adelphi  than  were  these  sturdy  transgressors 
of  the  law  on  the  southern  coast. 

Dibdin  and  his  companion  reached  Brighton  in  safety, 
and  returned  presently  to  their  professional  duties  at  East- 
bourne. 

Robert  Jerrold  and  Charles  Jen-old  were  the  issue  of  Mr. 

b  2 


4  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERHOLD. 

Samuel  Jerrold's  marriage  with  Miss  Simpson,  an  actress  in 
one  of  the  companies  tu  which,  during  his  changeful  youth, 
Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold  helonged.  The  elder  son,  Robert,  when 
he  reached  manhood,  adopted  his  father's  profession,  and 
hecame  a  member  of  the  Norwich  company,  acting  under 
the  name  of  Fitzgerald.  Subsequently  he  was  lessee  of  the 
York  circuit,  bought  the  Sheeraess  theatre  of  his  father  in 
June,  1813,  and  died  suddenly,  on  his  way  from  Sheffield  to 
Leeds,  in  May,  1818.  Charles  became  a  warrant  officer  in 
his  Majesty's  navy,  and  died  about  1846. 

Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold  undoubtedly  passed  many  years  of  his 
life  in  the  provincial  towns  of  the  south  of  England,  gaining 
his  livelihood  as  an  actor.  The  son  of  Mr.  Jerrold,  of  Hackney 
(who  was  a  large  dealer  in  horses  at  a  time  when  horses 
were  eagerly  sought,  in  consequence  of  the  long-continued 
wars),  and  the  descendant  of  yet  richer  landed  gentry,  the 
poor  stroller  must  have  remembered  somewhat  bitterly  the 
fact,  to  which  he  often  referred,  namely,  that  he  had  played 
in  a  barn  upon  the  estate  that  was  rightfully  his  own. 

At  the  close  of  the  last  century,  and  in  the  early  years  of 
the  present,  the  strolling  actor  was  still,  in  the  eyes  of 
society,  a  protected  vagabond.  Since  that  10th  of  May, 
1574,  on  which  the  influence  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester  obtained 
for  his  servants,  James  Burbadge,  John  Parkyn,  John  Lan- 
ham,  William  Johnson,  and  Robert  Wilson,  a  licence,  under 
the  privy  seal,  "  to  exercise  the  faculty  of  playing  throughout 
the  realm  of  England,"  *  until  far  into  this  present  century, 
actoi's  had  made  little  progress  in  the  esteem  of  society. 
With  the  exception  of  the  fortunate  men  and  women  who 
trod  the  boards  of  the  patent  houses,  they  were  still  vagabonds, 
as  in  the  early  Elizabethan  days,  when  they  were  glad  to 
shelter  themselves  as  servants  of  powerful  nobles  ;  when  the 
Earl  of  Warwick,  Lord  Clinton,  Sir  Robert  Lane,  and  other 

*  The  Prolegomena  to  Reed's  edition  of  Steevens's  "Shakspeare." 


INFANCY.  5 

notable  men  had  each  his  retinue  of  theatrical  servants  ; 
and  when  these  servants  were  forbidden  to  act  publicly  on 
Thursdays,  because  their  entertainments  might  harm  the 
interests  of  the  more  dignified  folk  who  speculated  in  the 
attractions  of  bear-baiting. 

And  so  near  that  little  pleasant  Kentish  market  town, 
Cranbrook,  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold,  manager,  who  set  his  actors 
to  work  about  1806  in  a  large  barn  at  Wilsby,  was,  no 
doubt,  glad  to  find  himself  under  the  protecting  wing  of  Sir 
Walter  and  Lady  Jane  James,  the  great  people  of  Angley. 
The  stage  must  have  been  rude  enough  ;  the  dresses  were 
possibly  coarse  and  dingy  ;  yet  under  this  barn  thatch  more 
than  one  actor,  destined  to  be  presently  famous  in  London, 
strutted  his  hour  for  the  amusement  of  Kentish  plough  boys. 

The  manager  had  had  his  misfortunes  and  his  fortunes. 
He  had  lost  his  first  wife,  and  years  afterwards  (about  171K3 
or  1794)  had  married  at  Wirksworth,  in  Derbyshire,  Miss 
Reid,  a  young  lady  of  great  energy  and  ability.  The  husband 
was  older  than  his  own  mother-in-law  ;  and  gossips  in  the 
theatre  had  much  to  say  about  this  junction  of  May  with 
December.  Still  the  match  was  a  happy  one,  and  brought 
prosperity  to  the  management  ;  for  Mrs.  Samuel  Jerrold 
could  rule  a  theatre  as  cleverly  and  more  vigorously  than 
her  elderly  lord.  A  young  family  came — first  two  daughters; 
then,  while  Mrs.  Jerrold  was  in  London,  on  the  3rd  of 
January,  1803,  a  fine  boy,  who  was  christened  Douglas 
William,  and  carried  in  swaddling  clothes  to  Cranbrook  by 
his  grandmother.  Douglas  was  his  maternal  grandmother's 
maiden  name. 

The  sheep-bells  that  made  the  softly-rounded  hills  about 
Cranbrook  ever  musical,  and  the  rude  theatre  in  the  suburbs 
of  the  little  town,  were  little  Douglas's  earliest  recollections. 
In  1806,  when  the  subject  of  this  memoir  was  in  his  third 
year,  he  was  a  strong,  rosy,  white-haired  boy,  as  Mr.  Wil- 
kinson (afterwards  the  celebrated    Jeffrey   Muffincap),  who 


G  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

had  just  arrived  at  the  little  theatre  to  tempt  fortune  upon 
its  humble  boards,  is  still  alive  to  testify.  That  intense  love 
of  nature,  that  thirst  which  the  grown  man  felt  for  the 
freshness  of  the  breeze,  and  that  glow  of  heart  with  which 
he  met  the  sunshine  in  after-life  ;  appear  to  have  first  moved 
his  soul  as  an  infant.  The  memory  of  the  sheep-bell,  I  have 
said,  was  his  earliest  impression  ;  for  the  sweetness  of  the 
rich  pasturages  and  the  leafy  lanes,  the  swelling  distances 
of  grove,  and  hill,  and  valley,  were  all  summed  up,  in  his 
memory,  in  this  pastoral  music.  Led  by  his  grandmother, 
with  whom  he  chiefly  lived,  for  careful  walks  along  the 
cleaner  paths,  he  gathered  the  abundant  wild  flowers  of 
Kentish  hedges,  and  trotted  early  home  to  bed,  that  the  old 
lady  might  be  at  her  humble  post  of  money-taker  at  the 
Wilsby  theatre. 

And  when  he  became  a  man,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  and 
strong,  clear,  and  intense  thoughts  in  his  brain,  he  remem- 
bered his  little  thatched  Wilsby  theatre,  and  spoke  in  behalf 
of  the  strolling  player.  "  He  is  the  merry  preacher  of  the 
noblest,  grandest  lessons  of  human  thought.  He  is  the 
poet's  pilgrim,  and  in  the  forlornest  byways  and  abodes  of 
men  calls  forth  new  sympathies — sheds  upon  the  cold,  dull 
trade  of  real  life,  an  hour  of  poetic  glory, '  making  a  sunshine 
in  a  shady  place.'  He  informs  human  clay  with  thoughts 
and  throbbings  that  refine  it,  and  for  this  he  was  for  cen- 
turies '  a  rogue  and  vagabond  ;  '  and  is  even  now  a  long, 
long  day's  march  from  the  vantage-ground  of  respectability." 

And  so  Master  Douglas  Jerrold  passed  into  his  fourth 
year.  On  the  27th  day  of  January,  1807,  Mr.  Samuel 
Jerrold  became  the  lessee  of  the  Sheerness  theatre,  and  early 
this  year  his  family  followed  him  to  his  new  field  of  exertion. 

Sheerness  at  the  present  time  is,  perhaps,  the  dullest 
English  seaport  town  a  wanderer  from  London  can  visit. 
The  approach  from  Chatham,  down  the  Med  way,  between 
the  wooden  walls  of  old  England,  making  a  glorious  thorough- 


INFANCY.  7 

fore — past  the  dismantled  ships  that  once  bore  hardy  Eng- 
lishmen to  the  Arctic  regions — past  the  black  and  terrible 
floating  batteries,  and  the  poor  old  hull  of  the  Chesapeake 
reduced  to  a  receiving  ship  ; — to  the  broad  water,  where 
frigates  sit  immovable  upon  the  dancing  sea — where  lively 
boats  dart  hither  and  thithei  to  the  cheery  notes  of  brawny 
tars,  while  the  gold-laced  caps  of  the  officers  in  the  stem- 
sheets  gleam,  as  the  little  barks  rise  and  fall,  with  a  white 
crest  of  foam  ever  upon  their  gallant  shoulder — here,  with 
a  fresh  breeze  rushing  past  his  face,  and  planted  upon  the 
deck  of  a  little  steamer  that  runs  audaciously  under  the 
stern  or  bows  of  the  war  monsters  around  her,  and  impu- 
dently tries  to  puff  her  smoke  into  the  state-cabin  windows, 
to  prove  that  she  is  not  so  little  after  all — here,  I  say,  the 
smoke-dried  Londoner  may  spend  a  pleasant,  invigorating 
hour.  But  let  him  once  touch  the  creaking  timbers  of 
old  Sheemess  pier,  and  he  is  disenchanted.  He  may  lean 
upon  the  railings  for  a  few  minutes,  and  watch  sailors 
lolling  and  peaceably  smoking  in  their  rocking  boats  ;  he 
may  note  the  admiral's  little  black  steamer  standing  out  to 
sua  ;  or  he  may  catch  glimpses  of  great  hulls  laid  up  high 
and  dry  in  the  dockyard,  and  suffering  the  blows  of  a 
thousand  hammers,  amid  feathers  of  steam  darting  from  the 
black  holes,  where  fires  glow  like  angry  eyes,  and  where,  he 
is  told,  Nasmyth's  hammer  now  breaks  an  iron  beam,  and 
now,  delicately  as  a  lady — to  show  how  gentle  it  can  be — 
cracks  a  nut  !  But  when  he  has  resolutely  passed  the  dingy 
toll-house  at  the  land  extremity  of  the  pier,  and  has  turned 
to  the  left,  and  into  High  Street  ;  he  will  possibly  quicken 
his  footsteps,  with  the  innocent  idea  that  he  is  passing 
rapidly  out  of  the  dirt,  and  away  from  the  little  squalid 
shops  of  Blue  Town,  into  the  more  aristocratic  Mile  Town. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  devoted  to  this  pedestrianism  will 
convince  him  that  Blue  Town  is,  on  the  whole,  quite  as 
cheerful  a  place  as  Mile  Town.     For,  grant  that   the  High 


*  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Street,  Blue  Town,  consists  of  a  high  black  dockyard  wall  on 
the  left,  and  rows  of  rasping  pilot  coats,  arrays  of  'bacco 
boxes,  tarpaulin,  consumptive  apples  strangely  laid  out  near 
red  herrings  that  are  yellow,  and  dingy  beershops,  orna- 
mented with  gin  bottle  with  flyblown  labels,  on  the  right  ; — 
can  Mile  Town,  with  its  long  streets  of  little  one-storied 
wooden  houses,  make  any  solid  claim  to  grandeur?  It  in- 
cludes Portland  Place  it  is  true  ;  but  then  its  Portland 
Place  is  hardly  one  hundred  yards  in  length  ;  and  its  in- 
dustry is  almost  confined  to  the  operations  of  an  energetic 
dealer  in  weathercocks  and  figure-heads.  Enterprise  is  not 
wild  in  Blue  Town,  it  is  true  again,  since  the  librarian  sur- 
rendered a  current  number  of  Household  Words  to  me  only 
after  a  weighty  discussion,  in  which  he  informed  me  that  he 
"  never  bought  more  numbers  than  he  had  orders  for." 
Sheemess  does  not  even  boast  a  published  guide.  One  was 
issued  years  ago,  but  it  has  long  since  been  suffered  to  run 
out  of  print.  For  amusements  Sheerness  possesses  a  Co- 
operative Hall,  mostly  frequented  by  clergymen  of  a  highly 
orthodox  jocosity.  No  telegraphic  wires  connect  this  an- 
cient town  with  London.  It  has  consented  to  avail  itself  of 
the  advantages  of  gas  ;  but  then  it  will  not  allow  its  gaso- 
meter to  compete  with  the  moon,  and  so,  on  moonlight 
nights,  it  dispenses  with  the  services  of  its  lamplighter.  But 
then  Sheerness  has  no  pretension  whatever.  There  are  no 
gaudy  liuendrapers'  windows,  no  dapper  tailors,  no  tempting 
hosiers  within  it.  Its  people  dress  as  they  please,  and  appear 
to  have  but  the  smallest  regard  for  the  opinions  of  their 
neighbours.  The  sailors,  lounging  about  the  streets,  with 
their  broad  fingers  dipped  into  their  dog's-eared  pockets-, 
have  given  their  rough,  and  honest,  and  careless  spirit  to  the 
place. 

It  is  strange,  seeing  how  cheerful  Slieerness  people  are, 
and  how  content  they  live  in  narrow,  dirty  streets  ;  that 
they  have  not  been  impelled,  by  the  gallant  fellows  who  lie 


INFANCY.  9 

in  the  great  ships  yonder,  to  arrange  some  hearty  amuse- 
ments for  visitors.  But  the  fact  is  that  the  sailors  repair  to 
sad  beershops,  while  the  serious  attend  those  sleepy,  soulless 
lectures,  of  which  the  soiled  syllabus  may  be  seen  in  the 
bakers'  windows.  There  is  no  theatre  in  Sheeruess ;  and 
more,  I  could  not  find  a  single  inhabitant  who  wished  to 
see  one  built.  I  was  shown  a  timber-yard,  at  the  corner  of 
Victory  Street,  which  was  the  site  of  the  last  stage ;  and  I 
knew  that  the  theatrical  establishment  of  which  Mr.  Samuel 
Jerrold  became  lessee  in  1807,  had  long  since  been  taken 
down  ;  and  that  its  site  had  been  inclosed  within  the  great 
black  wall  in  High  Street,  Blue  Town. 

Sheerness  in  1807,  however,  although  not  measuring  half 
the  circumference  it  now  boasts,  was  livelier  than  it  is 
now  ;  or  the  manager,  although  paying  to  Mr.  Jacob  Johnson, 
of  London,  only  £50  per  annum  for  the  theatre  in  High 
Street,  Blue  Town,  would  have  fared  badly.  A  formidable  foe 
was  on  the  opposite  shore.  England  looked  more  than  ever 
to  her  wooden  walls,  and  had  just  added  ten  thousand  men  to 
her  naval  service.  The  Blue  Town,  Sheerness,  was  crammed 
with  sailors  and  their  officers.  The  spirit  of  recent  great 
achievements  animated  them ;  and  to  Mr.  Jerrold's  little 
wooden  theatre  flocked  officers  and  men,  in  sufficient  crowds 
to  make  the  manager's  speculation  for  many  years  highly 
lucrative.  The  audience  was  not,  as  may  be  readily 
imagined,  a  very  quiet  one.  Still,  Hamlet  and  Richard 
the  Third,  and  JIacbeth  drew  houses;  but  pieces  having 
some  reference  to  nautical  life  ;  and  farces,  broad  rather  than 
elegant,  interspersed  with  old  comic  songs,  were  the  chief 
elements  of  the  usual  entertainment.  Now  the  port-admiral, 
and  now  the  governor,  gave  the  manager  a  "  bespeak,"  to 
help  him  through  the  dull  season. 

Jogrum  Brown,  one  of  the  old  doorkeepers  of  the  little 
theatre,  still  lives  ;  and,  in  his  ripe  old  age,  pursues  the  very 
serious  duties  of   sexton  to  his  neighbours  of  Blue  Town. 


10  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

He  is  a  hale  old  man,  with  a  head  stored  to  the  skull  with 
curious  bits  of  local  history.  I  had  a  long  conversation  with 
him,  as  we  rambled  together  in  1858,  along  the  shore,  within 
sight  of  the  dockyard.  "  To  him,"  he  said,  "  times  were 
changed  indeed.  He  remembered  the  day  Parker  was 
hanged — well.  History  told  us  many  lies  on  the  subject. 
Parker  was  hanged  on  board  the  Sandwich,  90-gun  ship. 
They  brought  him  from  Greenhithe,  and  he  was  hanged." 

"  He  ought  to  remember  all  about  the  theatre,  for  he 
was  doorkeeper  there  for  yeai-s.  He  wroi-ked  in  the  dockyard 
in  the  daytime,  and  was  in  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold's  service  in 
the  evening.  Webb,  the  Irish  comedian,  was  the  star  for  a 
long  time.  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold  played,  too,  sometimes.  He 
remembered  him  well  in  Richmond,  and  in  the  Ghost  in 
Hamlet.  He  was  not  particular  what  he  played.  He  couldn't 
say  how  big  the  theatre  was,  but  he  did  remember  well  that 
on  the  night  when  the  Russian  admiral  was  at  Sheerness,  and 
gave  a  'bespeak,'  there  was  ,£42  18s.  in  the  house.  This 
was  the  largest  sum  they  ever  took  in  a  night.  The  prices 
were  three  shillings  to  the  boxes,  two  shillings  to  the  pit,  and 
one  shilling  to  the  gallery. 

"  In  that  time,"  continued  the  old  sexton,  in  reply  to  my 
allusion  to  the  want  of  waterworks  in  Sheerness,  "  it  was 
much  scarcer.  Water  cost  fourpence  for  two  pails  ;  now  you 
can  have  the  same  quantity  for  one  penny.  Ay,  you  could 
get,  in  those  days,  plenty  of  hollands  in  the  island,  but  very 
little  water.  There  was  smuggling  going  forward  everywhere. 
Why,  the  smugglers  stowed  the  spirits  in  any  corner.  He 
remembered  that  there  was  a  kind  of  ditch  which  ran  behind 
the  theatre.  Well,  somebody  once  told  him  he  was  certain 
that  a  lot  of  money  must  be  dropped,  from  time  to  time, 
through  the  floor  of  the  boxes  ;  so  he  and  the  carpenter 
determined  one  day,  when  nobody  was  by,  to  take  the  floor 
up.  They  did  take  it  up,  and  crept  under,  when  they  found, 
not  money,  but  near   upon   eighty  casks  of   hollands.     It 


INFANCY.  11 

appeared  that,  smugglers  had  been  in  the  habit  of  travelling 
along  the  ditch,  and  depositing  their  contraband  in  this  con- 
venient spot  under  the  theatre.  Of  course  he  gave  a  hint, 
and  the  casks  were  removed. 

"  Ay,  many  strange  things  happened  to  him  while  he  was 
doorkeeper.  He  remembered  Lord  Cochrane  well.  He  used  to 
be  often  at  the  theatre  when  he  was  at  Sheeraess,  in  the  Pallas, 
and  his  lordship  would  always  insist  upon  paying  double." 

The  little  white-haired  boy  who  ran  about  the  theatre 
then,  looking  up  with  awe  at  the  naval  hero,  was  destined, 
many  years  afterwards,  to  take  up  that  ill-used  hero's  cudgels. 
And  very  handsomely  did  the  hero  acknowledge  the  service, 
as  the  following  letter  sufficiently  witnesses  : — 

"8,  Chesterfield  Street, 
"lQthMay,  1847. 
"Sir, 

"  Your  generous  and  very  powerful  advocacy  of  my 
claim  to  the  investigation  of  my  case  has  contributed  to  promote 
that  act  of  justice,  and  produced  a  decision  of  the  Cabinet 
Council,  after  due  deliberation,  to  recommend  to  her  Majesty 
my  immediate  restoration  to  the  Order  of  the  Bath,  in  which 
recommendation  her  Majesty  has  been  graciously  pleased  to 
acquiesce. 

' '  I  would  personally  have  waited  on  you,  confidentially  to 
communicate  this  (not  yet  promulgated)  decree ;  hut  as  there  is 
so  little  chance  of  finding  you,  and  I  am  pressingly  occupied,  I 
shall  postpone  that  pleasure  and  duty. 

"  I  am,  Sir, 
"  Tour  obliged  and  obedient  Servant, 

"  Dtjndonald. 
"  Douglas  Jerrold,  Esq." 

This  letter  was  always  treasured  by  the  recipient  of  it  as  a 
very  handsome  acknowledgment  of  a  small  service.  It  was 
the  first  letter  written  by  the  Earl  on  his  rehabilitation. 

Jogrum  Brown  remembered,  too,  when  Oxberry  was  playing 
at    Sheeraess.     Two   gentlemen    arrived  from    London,    en- 


12  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

gaged  him,  took  him  off  in  a  post-chaise  directly  after  the 
performance  was  over,  and  Oxberry  played  in  London  the 
very  next  night. 

"  Mr.  Samuel  Jen-old  and  his  wife  were  very  much  liked. 
She  was  the  more  active  manager,  and  was  very  kind.  Once 
there  was  a  landslip  near  Sheerness  that  carried  a  house  and 
garden  into  the  sea.  Mrs.  Jerrold  was  very  good  to  the  poor 
sufferers,  and  gave  a  benefit  for  them,  which  realised  £37." 

The  old  doorkeeper,  afterwards  sexton,  and  known  to  his 
fellow-townsmen  as  Jogrum  Brown,  had  many  more  stories 
to  tell.  His  friend  Patrick  and  Mrs.  Patrick — both  hale, 
happy  old  people,  in  1858,  also  remembered  the  mutiny  at 
the  Nore.  Mrs.  Patrick  recalled  the  theatre  to  mind  as  the 
scene  of  her  husband's  early  attentions. 

Patrick  spent  the  lusty  days  of  his  life  as  a  shipwright, 
and  was  living,  when  I  called  on  him,  in  a  snug  house  in 
Victory  Street,  Mile  Town,  on  his  superannuation  allowance. 
He  remembers  well  the  performance  of  the  Stranger,  and 
that "  little  Douglas,"  a  handsome,  rosy  boy,  appeared  as  one 
of  the  children  in  it.  Jogrum  Brown  did  not  remember  that 
the  manager's  son  often  appeared,  but  he  did  remember  that 
he  never  seemed  "  to  take  to  it." 

The  truth  is  that  Douglas  Jerrold  appeared  on  the 
paternal  stage  in  several  pieces  when  a  child  was  needed. 
Edmund  Kean,  for  instance,  carried  him  on  in  Rolla.  But 
not  within  the  wooden  walls  of  this  little  theatre  were  the 
boy's  thoughts.  He  had  no  inclination  towards  the  foot- 
lights :  and  never  cared,  in  after-life,  for  the  drama — seen 
from  behind  the  scenes. 

Mrs.  Reid,  the  kind  old  soul  under  whose  tender  care 
my  father's  earliest  years  were  passed,  was  not  inclined  to 
see  him  runnine;  wild  about  the  theatre.  She  made  it  her 
special  business  to  bring  him  up.  No  speck  was  ever  seen 
upon  his  collar,  no  button  was  ever  wanting  upon  that 
skeleton  suit  which  was  in  vogue  in  those  days,  but  which 


INFANCY.  13 

has  been  since  ceded  to  our  dapper  pages  as  their  exclu- 
sive fashion.  Mr.  Wilkinson,  who  remained  a  member  of 
the  Sheerness  company  till  1809,  having  joined  it  at  Sheer- 
ness  at  Christmas,  1807 — some  months,  probably,  after  the 
close  of  the  Cranbrook  campaign — was  engaged  early  in 
1809,  when  my  father  was  six  years  of  age,  to  teach  him 
reading  and  writing.  He  combined  the  duties  of  tutor 
with  those  of  actor  till  the  close  of  that  year's  season,  when 
he  left  Sheerness  for  Scotland. 

At  this  time  "  little  Douglas  "  showed  a  remarkable  love 
of  reading  ;  and  years  afterwards,  when  the  good  old  lady 
was  blind  and  bedridden,  she  would  tell  stories  of  how  she 
used  to  lock  up  "  the  dear-  child"  in  his  own  room,  with  his 
books,  before  she  went  to  take  the  money  at  the  theatre. 
And  "  the  dear  child  "  grown  to  manhood's  estate — hazy 
acreage  very  often  ! — would  tell  his  stories  of  the  bright 
summer  evenings  when  he  was  caged  like  a  pet  bird,  and 
when  he  looked  down  into  the  streets  to  watch  his  free  play- 
mates pass,  chirruping  to  and  fro,  to  their  games.  He  loved 
his  books  undoubtedly  ;  but  the  key  was  turned  in  the  lock, 
and  his  spirit  chafed  to  know  it. 

From  his  little  prison  in  the  High  Street  he  might,  how- 
ever, watch  the  fleet  at  anchor  off  the  town.  And  in  those 
days,  when  the  men  about  the  thoughtful  boy  were  all  naval 
heroes — when  the  glories  of  the  British  tar  were  the  unfail- 
ing theme  upon  his  father's  stage — the  great  ships  lay  there, 
to  him,  floating  fairy  palaces.  Already  his  half-brother  was 
a  sailor,  and  his  grandmother  had  relatives  in  the  service  of 
his  Majesty.  The  stories  that  were  told  to  him  by  his  gar- 
rulous grandmother  were  of  Prince  William,  the  royal  sailor  ; 
of  Nelson  and  Collingwood.  The  passionate  reader  of  the 
"Death  of  Abel"  (the  copy  over  which  his  young  eyes 
wandered  is  before  me)  and  of  "  Roderick  Random,"  at  an  age 
when  most  boys  devote  their  free  energy  to  the  niceties  of 
••  knuckling  down,"   or  to  the  mysteries    of    rounders  j    he 


14  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

turned  from  the  dwarf  pictures  of  life,  as  presented  on  the 
stage,  to  the  great,  real  drama,  afar  off,  of  which  he  caught 
the  faint,  but  thrilling  echoes.  In  his  walks  with  his  grand- 
mother, who  insisted  that  he  should  wear  pattens  in  dry  as  iu 
wet  weather,  neighbours  would  stop  to  watch  the  little 
fellow  read  the  names  over  the  shops,  or  the  bills  in  the  shop 
windows.  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Patrick,  who  knew  Mr.  Samuel 
Jerrold  and  his  famihr  only  by  seeing  them  in  the  streets  or 
at  the  theatre,  have  yet  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  my 
father  when  a  boy,  and  of  his  constant  walks  with  his  good 
grandmother.  They  remember,  too,  that  he  had  a  passion 
for  the  sea  ;  and  Jogrum  Brown  declares  that  his  master's 
boy,  Douglas,  was  a  stout,  well-made,  white-haired,  and  rosy- 
cheeked  child,  graver  than  other  children,  and  somewhat 
unusually  ready  "  to  show  fight." 

After  Mr.  Wilkinson  left  Sheemess  for  Scotland  the  little 
reader  of  the  "Death  of  Abel''  was  sent  to  Mr.  Herbert's 
school.  This  school  was  the  best  then  in  Sheerness,  and 
included  about  one  hundred  scholars.  The  old  schoolmaster 
was  alive  in  1858,  and  remembered  his  pupil,  Master  Douglas 
Jerrold,  as  a  boy,  to  whom,  he  believed,  he  never  had  to  say 
an  angry  word,  and  who  was  particularly  studious.  "  Little 
Douglas  "  remained  at  this  school  during  four  or  five  years, 
and  when  he  left  Mr.  Herbert  "  he  was,"  according  to  his 
schoolmaster's  report,  "iu  the  third  or  fourth  rule  of  arith- 
metic." I  have  a  Christmas  piece  before  me,  signed  Douglas 
William  Jerrold,  the  25th  of  December,  1812,  and  written 
in  a  fine  small  hand — strong,  flowing.  Undoubtedly  it  is  a 
schoolboy's  best  writing,  performed  at  a  very  slow  pa.ce, 
under  the  scrutinising  eye  of  Mr.  Herbert,  who  was  anxious 
to  send  home  his  pupil  showiug  the  most  encouraging  pro- 
gress. Still  it  is  so  far  beyond  the  cramped,  dull,  copy-book 
hand  written  usually  by  children  at  this  age,  that  it  is,  to 
me  at  any  rate,  strong  evidence  of  the  writer's  precocious 
power.     It  is  an  affecting  sheet  to  look  upon,  with  its  rude 


INFANCY.  15 

painted  pictures  of  brightest  blue  and  most  flaming  red  and 
yellow — to  remember  the  dear  young  hands  that  traced 
these  fading  letters ;  and  the  hands,  also  dear,  that,  down 
to  this  hour,  through  sad  and  tumultuous  scenes,  have  kept 
it  safe,  to  lay  it  under  my  unworthy  eyes,  and  bid  me  tell 
its  simple  story  to  the  world. 

Mr.  Herbert's  school  was,  to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Jogrum 
Brown — possibly  not  an  infallible  authority  on  educational 
systems — a  very  different  affair  from  schools  in  the  present 
day.  "  No  algebra,  nor  that  sort  of  thing."  Mr.  Herbert 
undertook  to  teach,  undoubtedly,  only  the  common  rudi- 
ments. His  scholars  left  him  able  to  read,  write,  and 
manage  arithmetic  for  their  own  worldly  advantage,  as  some 
of  his  boys,  now  thriving  in  Sheerness,  can  testify.  "  He 
taught  us  to  turn  noughts  into  nines,"  said  one  of  his  grateful 
pupils  to  me — a  kind  of  commercial  education  that  would 
hardly  satisfy  the  greedy  maw  of  the  present  time. 

But  it  is  clear  that  from  Mr.  Herbert  my  father  turned, 
directed  by  the  strong  fire  within  him,  and  gazed  wistfully, 
passionately,  at  the  noble  frigates  that  ploughed  the  waves 
under  his  window,  and  sank  below  the  horizon  on  their  way 
to  victory.  It  is  certain  that  the  sea,  and  the  glories  of  the  * 
sea,  first  evoked  a  passionate  longing  in  his  young  heart ;  that, 
sitting  prisoner  on  summer  evenings  in  his  bedroom,  his  blue 
eyes  wandered  from  the  well-thumbed  "Death  of  Abel"  to 
search  over  the  water ;  and  that  great  visions  of  Nelsons 
afloat  under  victorious  bunting,  of  flying  Frenchmen,  and 
gallant  boarding-parties  ;  of  prizes  in  tow,  and  the  grateful 
cheers  from  English  shores  glowed  in  his  heart.  That  ardent 
temper,  that  white-hot  energy,  which  pulsed  through  him  in 
after-life,  and  made  his  utterances  all  vehement ;  showed  in 
the  boy  whose  daily  walks  were  in  the  midst  of  gallant 
sailors  scarred  by  war — of  heroes  come  home  to  be  glorified 
by  their  countrymen. 

From  his  mother,  who  was  of  Scotch  descent  on  the  ma- 


16  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

ternal  side,  undoubtedly,  he  derived  that  feverish  energy 
which  made  him  dash  at  eveiy  object  he  sought;  as,  from 
his  father,  a  weak,  pensive,  thoughtful  old  man,  he  borrowed 
that  tender,  poetic  under-current  that  flowed  through  every 
thought  he  set  upon  paper  for  the  world's  judgment.  But 
chiefly  to  my  grandmother,  I  have  always  heard,  and  have 
always,  from  my  own  observation,  thought,  he  owed  the 
marked  elements  of  his  character  : — and  the  strong  constitu- 
tion and  the  peculiar  cast  of  countenance  that  were  his.  His 
face,  as  a  child,  must  have  been  remarkable,  since  its  features 
live  still,  and  vividly,  in  the  minds  of  old  people  who  knew 
him  simply  as  a  young  fellow-townsman.  The  testimony  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Patrick,  and  of  old  talkative  Jogrum  Brown, 
points  to  a  very  handsome,  white-haired,  rosy-cheeked  boy. 
A  boy  with  eager,  flashing  eyes  he  must  have  been.  Energj', 
fire  in  every  muscle  of  the  strongly-marked  countenance  ;  the 
thin  lips  curled  down  with  a  wicked  humour;  the  eyes,  sharp 
as  lightning,  were  fixed  upon  you  ; — this  in  after-life.  But 
the  boy,  prisoned  in  High  Street,  Sheerness,  who  dwelt 
mournfully  upon  the  "Death  of  Abel,"  and  could  enjoy 
"  Roderick  Random  ;"  who  had  already  looked  across  the 
i  waters,  to  scent  the  thrilling  atmosphere  of  victorioiis  war; 
who  chafed  like  a  young  lion  eager  to  subdue,  and  was  vali- 
antly resolute  to  bear  his  little  part  in  the  fight  against  the 
French — the  French  under  whose  sunny  skies  the  grown  man 
was  destined  to  pass  some  of  the  happier  years  of  his  life — 
this  restless,  eager  boy,  to  whom  the  paternal  stage  was  an 
arena  all  too  mean  for  his  aspiring  soul,  must  have  borne, 
even  upon  his  white  head  ten  summers  old,  vivid  signs  of  the 
great  and  dauntless  heart  that  was  within  him.  Boys,  and 
the  games  of  boys,  were  not  for  him.  "  The  only  athletic 
sport  I  ever  mastered,"  he  said,  years  afterwards,  "  was  back- 
gammon." He  is  reported  to  have  been  at  hostilities  with 
the  boys  of  Mile  Town,  as  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Blue 
Town  juveniles;  and  to  have  acted  so  vigorously,  and  with 


INFANCY.  17 


an  earnestness  so  downright  in  the  actions  which  ensued,  that 
serious  interference  on  the  part  of  civil  heroes  of  a  larger 
growth  became  necessary.     Whether  the  young  warriors — 


" their  feasts  to  crown, 

Storni'd  some  ruintl  pigsty  for  a  town." 

is  not  on  record.  The  little  armies  consisted  mainly  of  the 
sturdy  offspring  of  a  maritime  population,  reinforced  hj  the 
progeny  born  of  maritime  store-dealers,  vendors  of  Jack's 
'bacco  boxes,  artful  appropriators  of  Jack's  prize-money ;  for 
Sheerness  in  those  days  was  not  the  favourite  watering-place 
of  the  Virtues.  The  Blue  Town  was,  if  a  jolly,  also  a  very 
loose  place.  Jack  ashore,  with  the  glow  of  victory  upon  him, 
and  with  much  spare  cash  burning  in  his  pocket  ;  was  not 
the  man  to  refine  the  spot  of  earth  which  he  made  the  scene 
of  his  landing  ;  therefore  the  sharks  that  are  always  ready 
to  pounce  upon  a  blue  jacket,  shoaled,  during  the  war,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Med  way.  Many  very  bad  men  here  filched  the 
prizes  from  the  guileless  heroes  who  had  won  them  with  their 
sweat  and  blood ;  and  went  away  to  enjoy  the  sunset  of  their 
life  upon  snug  properties,  while  their  victims  limped  to 
'Greenwich  Hospital. 

So  that  "  young  Douglas"  saw,  not  only  the  pleasant,  the 
heroic  side  of  sea  life.  Jack  ashore,  reeling  along  squalid 
alleys,  his  stalwart  arms  encircling  one  of  those  terrible 
women  seen  only  in  seaport  towns  (strong  jowl,  eyes  hideously 
merry,  dress  loose,  dirty,  and  glaring) ;  Jack  in  some  tavern 
brawl,  prodigal  of  oaths,  and  eager  for  a  fight ;  Jack  striped 
by  the  "cat ;''  Jack  swinging  from  the  yard-arm — all  these 
scenes  of  a  great  living  drama  passed  under  the  eager  eyes, 
into  the  fiery  brain,  and  smote  upon  the  heart  of  the  future 
author  (if  Black-Eyed  Susan.  Yet  with  those  brawny,  un- 
couth heroes  of  the  salt  sea,  who  had  ever  an  oath  for  the 
French   upon   their  lips;    whose  magic   word  was  Nelson  ; 

c 


18  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

despite  their  coarseness  and  brutality,  the  boy's  brave  heart 
went.  Went,  ay,  resolutely  as"  to  its  proper  air — to  its  obvious* 
and  its  glorious  destiny.  The  boy  forgot  the  hour  when 
Edmund  Kean  bore  him  to  the  footlights  in  Rolla;  he  turned 
from  the  faint  odour  of  the  theatrical  oil,  to  drink  deep  of 
that  bitter  hate  with  which  Englishmen  then  honoured  their 
"  gallant  allies  "  of  to-day.  To  thrash  the  French  was  the 
aspiration  of  a  large  proportion  of  English  youngsters  in  those 
times.  The  memory  of  Napoleon's  threatened  invasion — the 
great  army  of  Boulogne  (now  made  for  ever  memorable  by  a 
statue  of  the  great  general,  erected  upon  the  site  of  his  head- 
quarters, by  an  English  undertaker,  a  local  Crossbones) — the 
stories  of  which  Napoleon  was  the  presiding  demon,  stirred 
the  young  bluod  of  England ;  and  far  and  wide  went  forth  the 
defiant  assertion  that  one  Anglo-Saxon  could  thrash  three 
Gauls.  Superb  was  Jack's  contempt  for  Mounseer  afloat — 
infinite  his  delight  when  he  saw  his  vivacious  natural  enemy 
caricatured  upon  the  stage.  In  this  delight,  and  in  this  con- 
tempt, eager  "  young  Douglas"  shared  largely.  For  him  the 
sea,  and  the  sea  only,  was  the  worthy  sphere  of  an  English- 
man. In  after-life  he  never  spoke  of  Nelson  without  a  thrill 
of  excitement  ;  never  sniffed  the  salt  again  without  casting 
back  his  flowing  hair  in  the  breeze,  and  looking  eagerly  and 
with  huge  content  around  him. 

His  good  grandmother  must  have  watched  the  growth  of 
this  impulsive,  vehement  nature  with  alarm  ;  for  she — good 
soul  ! — would  have  cast  away  her  life  as  a  waif  to  shield  him 
from  the  least  harm.  He  was,  as  she  would  have  expressed 
it  herself  in  her  old-fashioned  way,  "the  apple  of  her  eye." 
Never,  in  wet  or  dry  weather,  did  her  young  charge  tread 
the  uneven  stones  of  High  Street,  nor  walk  along  the  shore, 
without  pattens  upon  his  feet.  Contentedly  enough,  the 
dear  boy  fairly  under  lock  and  key,  did  the  old  lady  take  her 
Station  in  the  theatre  lobby,  and  talk,  perhaps,  with  Jogrum 
Brown  or  (Jharlsworth — the  joint  attendants  upon  visitors— 


INFANCY.  19 

remembering  that,  for  one  night  at  any  rate,  "little  Douglas" 
was  safe. 

But  she  might  have  been  certain  that  her  young  grandson 
would  not  long  bear  this  affectionate  restraint.  The  hour 
must  come  when  he  would  refuse  to  be  locked  up  in  his  room, 
or  hold  the  apron-strings  of  his  good  grandmother.  The 
hour  came,  and  the  years  passed,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time 
the  good  old  lady  sank  to  rest.  I  remember  her  well  under 
"  little  Douglas'  "  roof. 

The  time  was  coming  when  his  dream  of  the  sea  would  be 
a  stern  reality.  Yet  even  then  would  the  good  soul  watch 
over  him,  and  write  to  his  captain,  imploring  him  to  be  kind 
to  "  little  Douglas,"  and  be  sure  he  wore  his  pattens  upon  the 
wet  decks.  From  the  fights  of  Blue  Town  he  was  about  to 
turn,  after  a  brief  hour  under  schoolmaster  Glass,  of  Southend 
(where  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold  had  also  a  theatre),  to  the  reality 
of  war  upon  the  deck  of  a  gun-brig — in  a  time,  too3  when  the 
sailors  of  the  old  school  ruled  the  waves  ;  when  a  youngster 
was  buffeted  about  a  ship  with  more  determined  brutality 
than  any  men  now  venture  to  exhibit  to  a  dog.  He  was 
about  to  leave  the  dirty  old  town  and  its  honest,  hearty 
townsfolk,  little  .  expecting  that  they  would  remember  his 
white  hair  and  rosj  cheeks ;  and  that  there  would  be  a  good 
couple  in  Victory  Street,  after  his  death,  able  to  paint  his 
boyish  figure,  and  declare  that  "Douglas  Jerrold  was  the 
only  good  thing  that  ever  came  out  of  Sheerness."  The 
brave  boy  bore  away  with  him  from  the  old  town,  however, 
many  memories  destined  to  do  him  good  service  in  the 
future. 

The  accuracy  of  his  memory  is  strongly  exemplified,  for 
instance,  in  the  following  account  of  Kean  at  Sheerness,  which 
he  gave  Mr.  Proctor  for  his  life  of  the  great  actor  : — 

"  Mr.  Kean  joined  the  Sheerness  company  on  Easter 
Monday,  1804.  He  was  then  still  in  boy's  costume.  He 
opened  m  George  Barnwell,  and  harlequin  in  a  pantomime. 

c  2 


20  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

His  salary  was  fifteen  shillings  per  week.  He  then  went 
under  the  name  of  Carey.  He  continued  to  play  the  whole 
round  of  tragedy,  comedy,  opera,  farce,  interlude,  and  pan- 
tomime until  the  close  of  the  season.  His  comedy  was  very 
successful.  In  Wattey  Cockney  and  Risk,  and  in  the  song  of 
'  Unfortunate  Miss  Bailey,'  he  made  a  great  impression  upon 
the  tasteful  critics  of  Sheerness.  On  leaving  the  place  he 
went  to  Ireland,  and  from  Ireland  to  Mr.  Baker's  company  at 
Rochester.  It  was  ahout  this  time  (as  I  have  heard  my 
father  say,  who  had  it  from  Kean  himself)  that  Mr.  Kean, 
being  without  money  to  pay  the  toll  of  a  ferry,  tied  his  ward- 
robe in  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  swam  the  river.  In 
1807  Mr.  Kean  again  appeared  at  Sheerness;  salary,  one 
guinea  per  week.  He  opened  in  Alexander  the  Great.  An 
officer  in  one  of  the  stage-boxes  annoyed  him  by  frequently 
exclaiming  'Alexander  the  Little  V  At  length,  making  use 
of  his  (even  then)  impressive  and  peculiar  powers,  Mi*.  Kean 
folded  his  arms,  and  approached  the  intruder,  who  again 
siieeringly  repeated  -  Alexander  the  Little ! '  and,  with  a 
vehemence  of  manner  and  a  glaring  look  that  appalled  the 
offender,  retorted,  'Yes,  with  a  great  soul  !'  In  the  farce  of 
the  Young  Hussar,  which  followed,  one  of  the  actresses  fainted, 
in  consequence  of  the  powerful  acting  of  Mr.  Kean.  He  con- 
tinued at  that  time,  and  even  in  such  a  place,  to  increase  in 
favour,  and  was  very  generally  followed,  when,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  1808,  in  consequence  of  some  misunderstand- 
ing with  one  of  the  townspeople,  he  was  compelled  to  seek  the 
protection  of  a  magistrate  from  a  pressgang  employed  to 
take  him.  Having  played  four  nights,  the  extent  of  time 
guaranteed  by  the  magistrate  (Mr.  Shrove,  of  Queenborough), 
Mr.  Kean  made  his  escape,  with  some  difficulty,  on  board  the 
Chatham  boat,  having  lain  perdu  in  various  places  until  a 
nocturnal  hour  of  sailing.  The  models  of  the  tricks  for  the 
pantomime  of  Mother  Goose,  as  played  at  Sheerness,  were 
made  by  Mr.  Kean  out  of  matches,  pins,  and  paper.     He 


INFANCY  21 

also  furnished  a  programme  of  business  and  notes,  showing 
how  many  of  the  difficulties  might  be  avoided  for  so  small  an 
establishment  as  that  of  Sheemess.  In  allusion  to  the  trick 
of  '  the  odd  fish,'  in  particular,  he  writes,  '  If  you  do  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  go  to  the  expense  of  a  dress,  if  the 
harlequin  be  clever  he  may  jump  into  the  sea,  and  restore 
the  egg.'  " 

We  now  turn  seaward,  whither  poor  Mrs.  Reid's  anxious 
eyes  are  directed  in  the  wake  of  her  little  favourite,  who  is 
on  his  way,  this  22nd  of  December,  1813,  to  the  guard-ship 
Namur,  hying  at  the  mouth  of  the  river — a  first-class  volun- 
teer in  his  Majesty's  service,  and  not  a  little  proud  of  his 
uniform. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ON    BOARD    SHIP. 

Life  on  board  a  man-of-war  in  1813 — even  on  board  a 
guard-ship  at  the  Nore — was  no  holiday  work.  I  have  often 
heard  my  father  dwell  upon  the  great  emotion  with  which  he 
first  ascended  the  gangway  to  the  deck  of  one  of  his  Majesty's 
ships. 

The  great  floating  mass  had  the  pomp  and  power  of  a 
kingdom  about  it — a  kingdom  in  which  he,  a  child  eleven 
years  of  age,  was  to  play  a  part  not  quite  obscure.  The 
good  Captain  xiusten  received  him  kindly,  and  petted  him 
throughout  the  year  and  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  days 
which  he  passed  under  his  command.  Still,  life  at  the  Nore 
was  not  the  naval  career  to  which  Captain  Austen's  midship- 
man aspired.  He  liked  wrell  enough  to  pass  hours  in  the 
captain's  cabin,  to  read  Buffon  through  and  through,  and  to 
get  up  theatricals,  aided  by  the  pictorial  genius  of  foremast- 
man  Clarkson  Stanfield,  afloat  in  the  same  ship.  He  was 
near  home,  too,  and  this  had  its  charm.  He  was  permitted 
also  to  keep  pigeons  ;  and  he  loved  to  see  his  flight  of  birds 
swooping  round  the  fleet.  The  sounds  of  war  afar  off,  how- 
ever, smote  incessantly  upon  his  ear,  and  made  him  eager  for 
active  service.  The  life  on  board  the  Namur  was  dull ;  the 
position  of  a  midshipman  in  her  not  a  very  hopeful  one — as 
in   the  fortunes  of  Jack  Runnymede,*  first-class  volunteer 

*  See  "Men  of  Character "  (collected  edition). 


ON   BOARD    SHIP.  23 

Douglas/William  Jen-old,  promoted  long  afterwards  to  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  ventured  to  set  forth.  To  this  picture  of  a 
guard-ship,  when  Runnyrnede,  caught  by  a  pressgang,  was 
put  on  board,  must  be  added  the  figure  of  the  faithful  limner, 
as  he  walked  the  deck  with  his  dirk  at  his  side,  and  clad  in 
that  remarkable  compromise  between  a  gentleman  and  a  foot- 
boy,  which  in  those  days  distinguished  the  midshipmen  in  his 
Majesty's  service  from  their  betters  and  inferiors. 

In  the  experiences  of  Jack  Runnyrnede  are  lively  descrip- 
tions of  drawing  buckets  of  water  from  the  hold  ;  of  the 
arrival  of  the  cutter  with  a  large  black  bull  painted  in  her 
mainsail,  conveying  beef  by  the  half  carcass  for  the  use  of  the 
crew;  of  how  men  were  drafted  to  a  gun-brig,  raw,  ragged 
fellows,  many  from  the  jails  of  London.  This  description  is 
drawn  direct  from  the  memory  of  the  writer,  even  to  the 
arrival  of  the  commanding  officer  of  the  gun-brig  ;  for,  on 
reference  to  the  records  of  the  navy,  I  find  that  on  the  24th 
of  April,  1815,  Mr.  Douglas  William  Jerrold,  volunteer  first 
class,  was  transferred,  with  forty-six  men,  to  his  Majesty's 
brie  Ernest,  "in  lieu  of  the  same  number  drafted  to  the 
guard-ship." 

The  mouotony  of  the  proceedings  on  board  the  Namur 
was  now  to  be  exchanged  for  active  service  at  sea.  The  times 
were  big  with  events.  The  great  story  of  modern  Europe — 
the  rise  and  fall  of  Napoleon  I. — was  working  to  its  climax. 
The  guns  were  loading  for  Waterloo,  and  the  little  gun-brig 
Ernest,  William  Hutchinson,  lieutenant  commanding,  was 
ordered  to  take  its  share  in  the  preparation  of  Bonaparte's 
final  catastrophe.  She  was  to  convoy  transports,  carrying 
troops  and  military  stores,  to  Ostcnd.  Vividly  was  the 
excitement  of  this  time  impressed  upon  the  midshipman's 
memory.  Still  his  anxious  grandmother,  from  the  shore,  sent 
to  him  as  often  as  an  opportunity  offered,  begging  that  Ua 
would  be  careful  of  his  health.  For  he  had  the  troubles  of  ;> 
yo  linker.     His  hammock  was  stolen,  r.nd  he  slept  during  six 


24  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

weeks  upon  the  floor  ;  he  got  into  disgrace  with  his  captain 
for  being  too  lenient  to  his  men ;  and  on  one  occasion  was 
refused  leave  to  go  ashore,  when  the  ship  put  into  harbour 
after  a  short  cruise.  But  he  kept  the  enthusiasm  of  his  child- 
hood in  his  heart.  His  was  a  sailorly  nature.  Hearty ;  flashing 
to  the  smallest  spark  of  excitement ;  courageous  to  rashness ; 
vehement  in  thought  and  expression — how  could  a  boy  made 
up  of  turbulent  elements  like  these,  fail  to  be  stirred  when, 
from  the  deck  of  a  gun-brig,  he  saw  the  transports  he  was 
helping  to  protect  from  the  enemy,  ploughing  the  chopping 
sea  from  the  Little  Nore  to  the  shores  of  Belgium  1  It  was 
only  five  days  before  the  great  battle  which  gave  peace  to 
Europe,  and  a  rock  to  the  hero  of  Austerlitz,  that  the  Ernest 
entered  Ostend  harbour  with  her  transports — three  of  which, 
by  the  way,  most  ungraciously  ran  foul  of  the  little  brig, 
carrying  away  her  flying  jib-boom. 

This  duty  performed,  however,  the  Ernest  stood  home- 
ward, and  on  the  13th  of  June  was  at  the  Little  Nore.  Here 
she  remained  only  two  days ;  for,  by  reference  to  her  log  (a 
most  meagre  record,  by  the  way,  devoted  mainly  to  a  chronicle 
of  when  rum  casks  were  tapped  and  beef  was  taken  on  board), 
we  find  that  on  the  15th  she  stood  eastward,  and  carried  away 
her  maintop-gallant  in  a  strong  breeze.  On  the  20th  she 
was  off  Texel— that  land  of  shepherds,  and  where  the  gulls 
love  to  deposit  their  eggs — and  on  the  22nd  she  had  reached 
that  remarkable  little  rock  in  the  North  Sea  which  we  took 
from  the  Danes  in  1 807— Heligoland.  Nor  did  the  restless 
little  ship  pause  long  here.  She  doubtless  took  in  some  of 
the  haddock  and  lobsters  for  which  the  surrounding  sea  is 
remarkable,  saluted  the  batteries  on  the  cliff,  and  then  went 
cruising  again,  having  on  the  22nd  seen  "  a  strange  sail." 
The  weather  presently  became  heavy,  and  the  Ernest  took 
advantage  of  her  proximity  to  the  good  harbour  of  Cuxhaven 
to  anchor  there  on  the  29th  of  June.  It  was  here  or  at 
Heligoland,  I  suspect,  that  the  midshipman  of  the  brig,  in 


ON   BOARD   SHIP.  25 

whom  we  are  interested,  fell  into  disgrace.  He  had  gone 
ashore  with  Captain  Hutuhinson,  and  was  left  in  command  of 
the  gig.  While  the  commander  was  absent  two  of  the  men 
in  the  midshipman's  charge,  requested  permission  to  make 
some  trifling  purchase.  The  good-natured  officer  assented, 
adding, — 

"  By  the  way,  you  may  as  well  buy  me  some  apples  and  a 
few  pears." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  the  men;  and  they  departed. 

The  captain  presently  returned,  and  still  the  seamen  were 
away  on  their  errand.  They  were  searched  for,  but  they  could 
not  be  found.  They  had  deserted.  Any  naval  reader  whose 
eye  may  wander  over  this  page  will  readily  imagine  the 
disgrace  into  which  Midshipman  Douglas  Jerrold  fell  with 
his  captain.  Upon  the  young  delinquent  the  event  made 
a  lasting  impx-ession,  and  years  afterwards  he  talked  about 
it  with  that  curious  excitement  which  lit  up  his  face  when  he 
spoke  of  anything  he  had  felt.  He  remembered  even  the 
features  of  the  two  deserters;  as  he  had,  most  unexpectedly, 
an  opportunity  of  proving. 

The  midshipman  had  long  put  his  dirk  aside,  and  washed 
the  salt  from  his  brave  face.  He  had  become  a  fighter  with 
a  keener  weapon  than  his  dirk  had  ever  proved,  when,  one 
day  strolling  eastward,  possibly  from  the  office  of  his  own 
newspaper  to  the  printing  premises  of  Messrs.  Bradbury  and 
Evans,  in  Whitefriars,  he  was  suddenly  struck  with  the  form 
and  face  of  a  baker,  who,  with  his  load  of  bread  at  his  back, 
was  examining  some  object  in  the  window  of  the  surgical- 
instrument  mkaer,  who  puzzles  so  many  inquisitive  passers- 
by,  near  the  entrance  to  King's  College.  There  was  no 
mistake.  Even  the  flour  dredge  could  not  hide  the  fact. 
The  ex-midshipman  walked  nimbly  to  the  baker's  side,  and, 
rapping  him  sharply  upon  the  back,  said, — 

"  I  say,  my  friend,  don't  you  think  you've  been  rather  a 
long  time  about  that  fruit  ?" 


26  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

The  deserter's  jaw  fell.  Thirty  years  had  not  calmed  the 
unquiet  suggestions  of  his  conscience.  He  remembered  the 
fruit  and  the  little  middy,  for  he  said, — 

"Lor!  is  that  you,  sir?" 

The  midshipman  went  on  his  way  laughing. 

On  the  28th  of  June  the  Ernest  was  working  out  of  the 
Elbe,  and  on  the  30th  she  was  back  at  Texel.  Here  one  of 
those  incidents  of  life  in  the  royal  navy  occurred,  which  made 
my  father's  heart  sick  whenever  he  recalled  them  to  his 
memory.  On  the  30th  of  June  Michael  Ryan  was  punished 
with  six  lashes,  for  theft.  Any  readers  who  may  have  been 
constant  subscribers  to  the  periodicals  in  which  the  name  of 
Douglas  Jerrold  has  figured,  will  remember  the  vehemence 
with  which  he  always  wrote  of  the  "cat."  This  vehemence 
appeared  to  convulse  him  when  he  spoke  of  the  bloody  backs 
that  he  had  seen,  while  a  midshipman.  It  was  a  subject  to 
which  he  returned  again  and  again.  When,  in  the  summer 
of  1846,  a  soldier  was  flogged  to  death,  his  indignation  burst 
forth  in  words  of  fire.  The  debate  in  the  House  of  Commons 
which  the  death  in  question  provoked,  roused  him  to  this 
expression  of  savage  irony.  "  The  British  oak,"  he  said, 
"  which,  on  the  authority  of  the  song,  supplies  his  heart  to 
every  British  sailoi*,  flourishes  the  more,  like  the  British  wal- 
nut, the  more  it  is  thrashed.  This  opinion  is  recommended 
to  us  by  legislative  wisdom — wisdom  clubbed  to  both  by 
sailors  and  landsmen  in  the  House  of  Commons;  for  a  great 
part  of  Monday  evening  (July  20th,  1846)  was  devoted  to  the 
praises  of  the  cat-o' -nine-tails.  The  eulogies  were  so  glowing, 
so  ingenious — the  natural  and  the  social  benefits  of  knotted 
cord  administered  by  the  boatswain's  mate  till  the  flesh 
blackens  and  the  blood  gushes,  so  deep  and  manifold  that, 
after  the  eloquence,  the  fancy,  bestowed  upon  the  scourge,  we 
do  not  despair  to  hear  sweet  things  said  of  the  rack;  to 
have  the  thumb-screw  bepraised  as  '  most  musical,  most 
melancholy,'  and  the  much-abused  and  much-misunderstood 


ON   BOARD   SIHP.  27 

steel  bodt  recommended  to  the  use  of  families.  To  read  the 
debate,  is  to  glow  with  admiration  at  the  stoic  wisdom  of 
officers  and  gentlemen  who,  with  unscathed  backs,  bear  wit- 
ness to  the  efficacy  of  the  lash.  According  to  them  grace  and 
goodness  are  twined  with  every  layer  of  the  scourge.  To  flog 
is  to  elevate.  The  reprobate,  'seized'  to  the  gangway,  becomes, 
with  every  burning,  flaying  stripe,  'a  wiser  and  a  better  man.' 
He  does  not  feel  himself,  with  every  lash,  a  more  debased  and 
wretched  being.  No,  the  '  offending  Adam'  is  whipped  out 
of  him,  and,  like  a  martyr,  with  maimed  and  lacerated  body, 

he  is  sublimated  by  agony Nought  so  purifying  as  the 

scourge.  The  moral  iniquity  of  the  hap-hazard  sailor  sloughs 
with  his  cat -torn  flesh.  His  wilfulness,  by  degrees,  runs  off 
with  his  blood,  and,  after  a  twelve  month's  purification, 
chastened  by  a  few  dozens,  more  or  less,  he  comes  from  the 
doctor's  hands,  scarred,  it  may  be,  in  the  flesh,  but  morally 
whole  and  regenerate.  Considering  this  solemn  purpose  of 
the  cat-o' -nine-tails,  we  think  the  health-dealing  instrument 

ought  to  undergo  some  sort  of  consecration It  ought 

to  be  blessed  by  the  ship's  chaplain,  in  the  like  way  that 
bishops  sanctify  military  colours.  So  lovely  an  instrument 
cannot  be  made  too  much  of."* 

We  have  here  the  effect  of  the  punishment  of  Michael 
Ryan  on  the  Elbe  on  the  30th  of  June,  181o.  The  pale  fair 
middy,  who  shuddered  as  the  cat  tore  the  poor  man's  flesh, 
bore  away  the  brutal  scene,  to  cast  its  blood  and  shame,  long 
afterwards,  at  the  statesmen  who  would  perpetuate  the  savage 
custom  of  whipping  men  in  a  country,  where  the  undue 
flogging  of  animals  is  punishable  by  law.  "The  good  old  days 
of  good  six  dozens "  were  those  when  Douglas  Jerrold  was 
afloat  in  the  North  Sea. 

*  The  French  abolished  flogging  in  their  army  and  navy  in  1797  ;  yet, 
as  Thomas  Moore  reminded  the  British  advocates  of  the  "cat,"  Napoleon 
contrived  to  maintain  sufficient  discipline  in  his  armies  to  conquer  the 
greater  part  of  Kurope. 


28  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

We  left  the  Ernest  at  Texel.  We  find  her  next,  on 
the  8th  of  July,  1815,  in  Yarmouth  Roads.  Hence  she 
proceeded  to  the  Downs,  there  to  perform  her  last  duty — 
one  that  lingered  long  in  the  memory  of  Midshipman  Jer- 
rold.  I  find,  according  to  the  brig's  log,  that  on  the  10th 
of  July,  Captain  Hutchinson  received  on  board  in  the  Downs, 
for  conveyance  to  Sheerness,  one  ensign,  forty-seven  invalided 
soldiers,  two  women,  and  two  children.  These  composed, 
undoubtedly,  the  ghastly  cargo  of  wounded  from  Waterloo, 
whose  raw  stumps  and  festering  wounds,  went  far  to  give  my 
father  that  lively  sense  of  the  horror  of  war,  which  abided 
with  him  throughout  his  life.  He  often  described  the  disgust 
with  which  he  beheld  the  poor  invalids  binding  their  sores 
upon  the  deck — the  groans  and  the  curses  that  fell  upon  his 
ear.  Here  was  the  effect  of  war,  without  its  excitement  or 
its  glory — war  behind  the  scenes  !  Europe  was  wildly  re- 
joicing over  the  field  from  which  these  maimed  men  had 
escaped.  The  stench  of  the  battle-field  was  drowned  by  the 
incense  of  victory,  save  only  to  those  men  who,  like  the 
sensitive  little  midshipman  of  H.M.S.  brig  Ernest,  had  the 
blood  pushed  under  their  nose.  And  to  the  end,  the  middy 
remembered  the  stench,  and  could  hardly  bring  himself  to 
sniff  the  incense. 

The  wounded  were  duly  delivered  at  Sheerness.  The 
activity  of  the  brisk  little  Ernest  was  at  an  end.  Europe 
was  preparing  for  a  long  peace.  Henceforth,  according  to 
the  Emperor  Alexander,  the  political  relations  of  the  powers 
of  Europe  were  to  be  founded  on  the  Gospel  of  peace  and 
love — a  foundation,  by  the  way,  which  his  successor  was  the 
first  to  disturb.  The  allies  were  in  Paris,  laying  the  founda- 
tion of  many  a  Parisian  shopkeeper's  fortune.  Europe  was 
to  be  one  vast  household  of  Christian  brothers.  In  this 
household,  in  this  brotherhood,  there  was  no  kind  of  use 
for  a  brisk  little  gun-brig.  Came  the  order  from  the  Admi- 
ralty to  land  marines  and  discharge  them  to  barracks,  and 


ON   BOARD   SHIP.  29 

to  pay  off  the  ship's  company.  Accordingly,  on  the  21st 
of  October,  1815,  about  noon,  Douglas  William  Jerrold, 
volunteer  first  class,  stepped  ashore,  and  turned  his  back  for 
ever  on  the  Service. 

But  he  never,  I  insist,  ceased  to  be,  at  heart,  a  sailor. 
He  loved  the  sea — was  proud  of  British  oak.  Its  dashing, 
careless,  hearty  phases  were  suited  to  his  nature.  He 
often  said  that  had  the  war  lasted,  and  had  his  strength 
beld  out,  he  would  have  been  somebody  in  his  Majesty's 
Service.  And  you  could  not  please  him  more  thoroughly 
at  the  seaside  than  by  proposing  a  day  in  a  cutter.  His 
eye  would  light  up,  and  he  would  hasten  to  the  shore  to 
talk  the  matter  over  with  the  sailors,  himself.  They  drove 
a  good  bargain  with  him,  for  he  could  never  haggle  over 
shillings,  and  they  liked  his  frank,  familiar  manner.  It  was 
delightful  to  see  his  little  figure  planted  in  the  stern-sheets, 
his  face  radiant,  his  hair  flowing  in  the  wind  ;  mouth  and 
nostrils  drawing  in,  with  huge  content,  the  salient  breeze. 
The  energy  with  which  his  glass  was  raised  when  a  sail 
appeared ;  the  delight  he  expressed  when  the  sailors  con- 
firmed his  description  of  the  craft  ;  the  keen  attention  he 
gave  to  any  stories  of  wrecks  or  storms  told  by  the  crew — 
all  these  signs  of  enjoyment  recalled  the  midshipman.  Nor 
had  he  forgotten  how  to  manage  a  boat.  On  a  certain  occa- 
sion he  was  sailing  in  a  frail  cutter,  from  Sark  to  Guernsey, 
when  the  wind  freshened,  and  the  sea  became  lively,  and  the 
boat  was  in  dangerous  currents.  The  men  were  not  suffi- 
cient for  the  occasion.  The  boat  shipped  water  ;  my  mother 
and  eldest  sister,  Mrs.  Henry  Mayhew,  who  were  of  the 
party,  clung  to  their  husbands  in  terror.  The  midshipman 
of  the  Ernest  saw  that  the  boat  was  being  mismanaged,  and 
that  at  any  moment  she  might  be  swamped.  He  calmly 
seized  the  helm,  bawled  out  his  orders,  stood  up  in  the  stern- 
sheets  firm  as  any  old  helmsman,  his  little  figure  looking 
wondrously  feeble  and  fragile  amid  the   boiling  waters,  and 


30  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

in  a  few  minutes  the  craft  bounded  over  the  waves,  be- 
having herself  with  all  the  propriety  of  the  best-regulated 
ship. 

Yet  he  spoke  with  horror  of  the  hardships  of  a  sailor's 
life.  That  a  boy  should  "rough  it"  was  an  idea  he  fre- 
quently and  earnestly  put  forth.  He  believed  that  this 
roughing  process  gave  manliness  to  a  boy's  nature — that  it 
steeled  him  to  fight  the  world.  Yet  he  saw  in  the  life  of  a 
"  middy  "  something  too  rough  to  be  good— something  that 
might  make  a  very  brutal  man.  His  admiration  for  the 
midshipman  who  had  fought  his  way  to  command,  and  had 
kept  the  gold  of  his  original  nature  in  him — who  had  deve- 
loped into  a  bluff,  daring  man,  with  that  wondrous  touch  of 
feminine  tenderness  which  belongs  to  sailors  of  the  better 
class — his  admiration  for  this  triumph  of  nature  over  adverse 
conditions,  was  boundless.  Of  Nelson  he  would  talk  by  the 
hour,  and  some  of  his  more  passionate  articles  were  written 
to  scathe  the  government  that  left  Horatia— Nelson's  legacy 
to  his  country — in  want.  It  was  difficult  to  persuade  him, 
nevertheless,  that  a  man  did  wisely  in  sending  his  son  to 
sea.  A  friend  called  on  him  one  day  to  introduce  a  youth, 
who,  smitten  with  a  love  for  the  salt,  was  about  to  abandon 
a  position  he  held  in  a  silk  manufacturer's  establishment,  for 
the  cockpit. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  ex-midshipman  of  the  Ernest ;  "  so 
you're  going  to  sea.     To  what  department  of  industry,  may 
I  inquire,  do  you  now  give  your  exertions  1  " 
"  Silk,"  briefly  responded  the  youth. 
"  Well,  go  to  sea,  and  it  will  be  worsted." 
With  something  of  this  kind   he  met  all  who  sought  his 
advice  on   the  advantages  and   disadvantages  of   a  sailor's 
life.      Yet  meet  him  by  accident  at  Greenwich,  and  you  would 
find  him  laughing  in  the  midst  of  the  pensioners,  and  distri- 
buting money  among  them,  with  a  true  sailor's  carelessness. 
On   one  occasion  he   made   himself  known   to  the  old  war's 


ON   BOARD   SHIP.  31 

men  as  a  midshipman  of  the  Namur,  and  inquired  eagerly 
on  all  sides  for  men  who  had  served  in  his  ship.  Having 
collected  half  a  dozen,  he  sallied  forth  from  the  hospital  at 
their  head,  and  led  them  to  a  neighbouring  tavern,  where  he 
proceeded  to  regale  them.  The  report  of  certain  good  for- 
tune which  had  befallen  these  Namur  men,  soon  spread 
through  the  hospital,  and  by  degrees,  formidable  bodies  of 
pensioners  discovered  that  they  also  had  been  on  board  the 
guard-ship.  The  tavern  was  besieged,  and  the  crowd  became 
so  great  and  noisy,  that  the  midshipman  and  his  friends 
were  compelled  to  beat  a  precipitate  retreat,  laughing  heartily 
at  the  adventure  :  the  midshipman  leading  the  laugh  as  he 
had  led  the  men. 

Let  us  return  awhile  to  the  fair  boy,  bronzed  somewhat 
by  two  years'  service,  who  stepped  on  shore  on  the  21st  of 
October,  1815,  at  Sheerness,  and  was  received  once  more  into 
the  arms  of  his  grandmother.  He  found  his  prospect  gloomy 
enough.  Theatricals  had  fared  ill  with  his  father.  The  old 
gentleman  had  been  tempted  to  take  the  Southend  theatre 
as  a  summer  establishment— he  had  been  tempted  to  rebuild 
the  old  Sheerness  stage — the  peace  had  come,  and  had  depo- 
pulated the  seaport  town.  Already,  in  June,  1813,  he  had 
assigned  his  lease  of  the  Sheerness  theatre  to  his  son  Robert ; 
but  in  1815,  borne  down  by  losses  incurred  at  Southend,  and 
by  the  unjust  dealings  of  the  men  to  whom  he  intrusted  the 
rebuilding  of  the  Sheerness  theatre,  he  was  compelled  to 
relinquish  management  altogether.  The  bill  of  sale  of  the 
theatre  that  calls  upon  bidders  to  assemble  at  the  White 
Horse,  High  Street,  Sheerness,  lies  before  me.  It  is  a 
melancholy  sheet,  giving  me  the  starting-point  into  that 
gloomy  period  of  the  family  history,  when  my  father,  with 
his  sister  and  brother,  for  the  first  time  saw  their  home 
broken  up.  The  blow  was  precipitated  by  t  ho  resolve  made 
by  government,  to  claim  the  land  upon  which  the  old  Sheer- 
ness  theatre   stood,  it   is  true  ;  but    time  would   have  very 


32  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERItOLD. 

rapidly  consummated  the  ruin  of  the  establishment,  had 
government  not  claimed  the  site  of  the  old  stage. 

Mr.  Samuel  Jen-old  was  already  an  old  man,  but  his  wife 
was  still  in  the  full  vigour  of  womanhood.  She  had,  more- 
over, as  I  have  already  written,  a  vigorous  mind  and  an 
energy  of  character  which  strongly  reminded  all  who  met 
her,  of  her  son  Douglas.  The  ordinary  rides  of  action  in 
cases  of  difficulty,  like  that  through  which  my  grandfather 
was  now  passing,  were  reversed  in  this  instance.  The  hus- 
band remained,  for  the  moment,  at  Sheerness  with  his 
children,  while  the  brave  young  wife  went  forth  to  London, 
accompanied  by  her  younger  son  Henry,  to  see  what  might 
be  done  there.  Douglas  and  his  sister  spent  a  gloomy 
autumn  with  their  father  and  good  Mrs.  Reid  at  Sheerness, 
waiting  a  summons  to  try  their  fortune  in  London.  This 
summons  came  late  in  December,  1815.  The  family  left 
Sheerness  at  the  close  of  the  year,  never  to  return  to  it. 

Yet,  ere  we  part  from  the  good  old  seaport,  let  us  take  a 
kind  farewell  of  the  simple  friends  who  remember  the  little 
midshipman  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  Chatham  boat, 
bound  for  London,  to  spend  many  dark  and  many  bright 
years  there  ;  with  a  stout  heart  for  the  gloom,  be  it  observed, 
and  a  grateful  look  for  the  shine.  Let  us  press  the  hand  of 
good  old  Patrick,  who  still  stoutly  clung  to  his  belief  that 
Doucrlas  Jerrold  was  born  at  Sheerness,  and  to  his  dictum 
that  Douglas  Jerrold  was  the  only  good  thing  that  ever  came 
out  of  weather-beaten  Blue  Town  ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

ARRIVAL    IN    LONDON. 

About  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  first  day  of  the 
year  1816,  the  Chatham  boat  arrived  in  London.  A  sharp, 
damp,  and  foggy  dawn  very  appropriately  ushered  in,  to  Mr. 
Samuel  Jerrold,  the  three  or  four  sad  years  he  was  destined 
to  spend  within  the  sound  of  Bow  bells.  His  son  Douglas, 
whose  coat  had  been  stolen  from  the  cabin,  and  who,  there- 
fore, trudged,  for  the  first  time,  along  London  streets  hardly 
prepared  for  the  fog  or  the  cold,  probably  felt  neither  the 
sharpness  of  the  wind  nor  the  suffocating  tendency  of  the 
fosr.  The  scene  was  new  to  him,  and  all  that  is  new  is  wel- 
come  to  the  young.  Holding  his  sister  by  the  hand,  he 
walked  the  streets  for  some  minutes  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility, while  his  father  stepped  aside  to  comfort  himself 
with  refreshment.  The  young  middy  might  well  try  thus 
early,  even  for  a  few  minutes,  the  effect  of  walking  alone  in 
London  ! 

A  house  in  Broad  Court,  Bow  Street,  received  the  family 
— a  humble  lodging  enough  ;  but  the  general  peace,  and  the 
confiscation  of  the  land  upon  which  the  theatre  stood,  had 
ruined  them  utterly.  Fortune,  food,  had  to  be  sought  by 
the  old  gentleman  who  had  been  despoiled  of  his  inheritance  ; 
and  had  lost  the  property  he  had  created  for  himself.  Let 
me  not  lightly  pass  over  this  time.  It  is  the  key  to  the 
after-character  of  him  whose  life  I  have  to  set  before  the 
reader.     This  Broad  Court,  with  its  dingy  houses ;  its  troops 

D 


34  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

of  noisy,  ragged  boys  ;  its  brawls  and  cries  ;  was  my  father's 
first  impression  of  the  great  city.  Here,  too,  for  the  first 
time,  he  came  to  hob-and-nob  with  the  stern  realities  of  the 
world.  As  yet  he  had  passed  a  youth  not  remarkable  for 
its  vicissitudes,  and  he  had  been  two  years  in  his  Ma- 
jesty's navy ;  in  the  position,  and  with  the  prospects,  of  a 
gentleman. 

When  a  home  is  broken  up  it  is  the  position  of  the 
children  that  oppresses  your  heart.  You  see  their  neat 
clothes  give  way  to  something  coarse  and  wretched— they 
tease  with  questions  that  cut  to  the  soul.  They  want  to 
have  a  child's  party  when  there  is  not  a  crust  for  them. 
They  ask  for  playthings  when  the  cupboard  is  empty.  Yet, 
in  the  new  and  humbler  house,  you  will  find  them  happily, 
because  insensibly,  adapting  themselves  to  a  poorer  station. 
They  will  occasionally  wonder  why  they  have  few  treats  now, 
and  why  the  little  companions  of  their  prosperity  never 
come.  Knowing  nothing  of  that  dogged  sternness  with 
which  the  world  follows  success — not  seeing  that  father  and 
mother  are  of  less  account  to  their  neighbours  than  they 
were  when  the  board  was  bright  with  plentiful  cheer  — they 
still  wonder  that  the  old  playmates  avoid  them.  Till  the 
truth  flashes  suddenly  upon  them — whereupon  they  cease 
to  be  children. 

Broad  Court  was  not  then,  I  will  fondly  hope,  so  dreary  a 
place  to  the  children  of  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold  as  it  must  have 
been  to  their  parents.  Indeed,  I  have  proof  that  the  young 
midshipman,  still  sporting  his  naval  uniform,  looked  man- 
fully about  him  at  once,  and  was  eager  to  see  the  wonders  of 
the  great  city.  He  had  only  just  entered  upon  his  fourteenth 
year ;  yet  had  he  begun  to  burn  with  a  desire  to  do  some- 
thing— to  be  somebody.  He  appears  to  have  moved  about 
freely,  as  one  preparing  to  hold  his  own  place  shortly. 
Naturally,  his  curiosity  was  first  directed  to  the  Loudon 
theatres ;  of  the  glories  of   which  he  had    heard  from  the 


ARRIVAL  IN  LONDON.  35 

London  actors,  who  had  from  time  to  time,  joined  his  father's 
Sheerness  company.  I  have  traced  him  to  the  Adelphi,  or 
Scot's,  as  it  was  then  called,  only  a  few  days  after  his  arrival 
in  town.  On  this  occasion  he  was  the  victim  of  a  clever 
thief. 

A  very  authoritative  person  stopped  the  midshipman  as  lie 
walked  up  the  passage  from  the  street  to  the  boxes,  saying, — 

"  Pay  here,  sir  !  " 

The  unsuspecting  midshipman,  anxious  to  reach  a  view  of 
the  stage,  paid  his  money,  and  went  rapidly  forward.  Pre- 
sently a  head  protruded  from  a  pigeon-hole,  and  again  a 
voice  said, — 

"  Pay  here,  sir  !  " 

The  midshipman  stopped,  and  told  the  face  framed  in  the 
pigeon-hole,  that  he  had  already  paid.  At  this  moment  a 
gentleman  came  up.  The  midshipman's  statement  proved 
that  the  first  man  who  had  demanded  payment,  was  a  very 
expert  swindler.  The  boy  had  no  more  money,  and  he  was 
about  to  turn  in  bitter  disappointment  away,  when  the 
gentleman,  who  had  heard  his  story,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
paid  for  him,  and  conducted  him  to  the  boxes.  That  was  a 
kind  geutleman,  be  it  remembered  ;  and  on  many  evenings, 
when  the  conversation  has  wandered  back  so  far  as  1810, 
have  unknown  friends  wished  him  God-speed  on  his  way 
through  life. 

From  theatricals  at  Sheerness,  it  would  appear,  Mrs. 
Samuel  .Jerrold  made  her  way  presently,  to  theatrical  em- 
ployment in  London.  Her  husband,  an  old  man  now,  had 
ihme  all  the  work  he  was  destined  to  do.  Garrick's  shoes 
were  worn  threadbare  ;  the  old  actor's  useful  habit  of  play- 
ing anything  on  the  shortest  possible  notice,  was  broken. 
Henceforth  he  was  to  be  chiefly  with  his  little  son  Douglas. 
They  would  read  together,  and  presently  little  Douglas  would 
be  something  more  than  an  amusement  to  the  old  man. 

Mr.  Wilkinson  returned  to  London,  to  join  Mr.  Arnolds 


36  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

company  in  his  new  theatre,  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the 
Jerrold  family  in  London.  He  at  once  renewed  the  old 
intercourse  with  his  former  manager.  "  I  cannot,"  Mr. 
Wilkinson  tells  me,  "  I  cannot  forget  how  glad  he  (Douglas) 
was  to  see  me,  and  how  sanguine  he  was  of  my  success, 
Baying  (it  is  now  as  fresh  in  my  memory  as  at  the  time  he 
uttered  it),  '  Oh,  Mr.  Wilkinson  !  you  are  sure  to  succeed, 
and  I'll  write  a  piece  for  you.'  I  gave  him  credit  for  his 
warm  and  kind  feeling,"  Mr.  Wilkinson  adds,  "  but  doubted 
his  capacity  to  fulfil  his  promise." 

Yet  the  boy  spoke  earnestly.  He  felt  that  there  was  the 
strength  in  him,  to  produce.  He  was  measuring  himself  by 
others  ;  and  possibly — it  is  the  custom  of  youth — was  dwarf- 
ing the  capacities  of  the  successful  men  about  him  as  much 
as  he  over-estimated  his  own  power.  In  after-years  he  could 
hardly  suppress  his  disgust  for  the  assumptions  of  young 
men  or  boys.  "  It  appears  to  be  a  habit,"  he  would  say, 
"  among  young  fellows,  to  think  they're  frogs  before  they're 
tadpoles."  For  he  saw  the  fall  that  was  coming  to  every 
man  who  started  in  life  with  the  idea  that,  at  one  spring,  he 
would  carry  the  world  with  him.  I  am  certain  that  this 
bitter  feeling  on  this  subject  was  the  fruit  of  long  sorrow. 
For  many  years  his  passionate  soul  suffered  agony,  as  day 
by  day  opportunities  flew  by — as  time  after  time,  utterings 
were  cast  into  print,  and  left  unnoticed.  The  deep  religion 
that,  to  him,  lay  in  tbe  true  outpouring  of  every  human 
sold,  kept  a  burning  desire  in  his  heart,  making  him  irascible, 
fierce ;  because  the  expression  of  this  religion  was,  for  the 
moment,  denied  him.  Yet  he  had  the  sailor's  manful  bearing 
too — the  sailor's  hearty  spirit — in  him.  If  he  had  left',  the 
sea,  and  the  dangers  of  the  sea,  he  could  still  find  pleasure 
iu  banding  together  the  boys  of  his  neighbourhood,  and 
leading  them  to  a  fierce  conflict  against  a  rival  band  in 
Broad  Court  ;  and  he  always  liked  to  see  something  of  the 
combative  spirit  in  beys.     1  can  remember  that,  when  I  was 


ARRIVAL  IX   LONDON.  37 

a  child  about   seven  years  old,  he   knelt  one  day  upon  the 
lawn  behind  hits  house  in  Thistle  Grove,  Chelsea,  and,  calling 
me  to  him,  gave  me  a  lesson   in  sparring.      I  was,  of  course, 
afraid  to  strike  out  ;  but  he  repeatedly  shouted  to  me  to  hit 
hard,  and  to  aim  at  his  head.     Years  afterwards  he  would 
relate,  with    obvious    glee,   how  certain    of  his    boys,    with 
their  schoolfellows,  had  repeatedly  thrashed  a  whole  village 
of  French  urchins.     The  pugnacious  element  was  peculiar  to 
him  decidedly.      It  is  clear,  unmistakable  in  all  his  writings 
— it  gave  a  zest  to  his  conversation.    It  extended  to  physical 
prowess  ;  for  he,  borne  down  by  rheumatism,  was  heard,  in 
a  moment  of  anger,  to  threaten  the  eviction  of  a  gentleman, 
standing  six  feet,  by  the  window.    He  would  wander  in  after- 
life through  the  most  lonely  places  at  any  hour  of  the  night, 
calm  as  in  his  own  study.      I  call   to  mind   an  occasion  on 
which,  when  walking  home  with  him,  a  gardener,  a  square, 
strong  man,  hustled  me  as   he  passed.     The   father  turned 
upon  him,  and  bade  him  "  take  care  of  the  child."     The  man 
replied  with  a  gross  impertinence.      In  a  minute  the  father's 
hat  and  stick  were  in  my  trembling  hands,  and  a  hard  blow 
would  have  been  dealt  in  a  minute  had  not  the  burly  work- 
man, cowed  by  the  fierceness  of  his  little  opponent,  slunk 
away.     This  spirit,  irrepressible  in  the  man,  must  have  been 
very  fierce  in  the  boy,  when  the  blood  was  hot.      It  must 
have  made  him  eager  to  enter  the  lists — to  be  independent. 
The  poverty  of  his  parents  at  this  time  was  a  new  stimulus 
to  him,  and   when   he   was    apprenticed    to    Mr.   Sidney,    a 
printer  in   Northumberland  Street,  Strand,    he  went   to  his 
work  with  hearty  good-will.     The  naval  uniform  was  thrown 
away,  the  dirk  was  given  to  good  Mrs.  lleid  to  be  treasured 
by  her,  and  the  dress  suited  to  the  new  position,  was  put  on 
eagerly. 

There  was  something  congenial  to  the  young  apprentice 
in  the  business  of  printer.  It  brought  him,  in  some  degree, 
iuto  connects  u  with  books.     It  would  be   his  duly,  at  any 


38  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

rate,  to  set  up  the  thoughts,  the  teachings  of  others ;  and, 
biding  his  time,  and  reading  hard,  to  put  the  stick  aside 
some  day,  and  take  up  his  pen.  This  was  his  burning  hope 
when  he  went  every  morning  at  daylight  to  Mr.  Sidney's 
printing  offices  ;  and,  as  books  fell  in  his  way,  the  hope 
became  a  passion.  I  have  heard  him  describe  his  work  at 
this  period  of  his  life  with  honest  pride.  He  would  tell  me 
how  he  had  risen  with  the  first  peep  of  day  to  stndy  his 
Latin  grammar  alone,  before  going  to  work ;  how  he  had 
fallen  upon  Shakspeare,  and  had  devoured  every  line  of  the 
great  master ;  and  how,  with  his  old  father,  who  was  a 
thoughtful,  if  a  weak  man,  he  had  sat  in  the  intervals  of  his 
labour,  to  read  a  novel  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  obtained  by 
pinching,  from  a  library.  He  used  to  relate  a  story,  with 
great  delight,  of  a  certain  day  on  which  he  was  useful  in 
several  capacities  to  his  father.  The  two  were  alone  in 
London.  The  young  printer  brought  home,  joyfully  enough, 
his  first  earnings.  Very  dreary  was  his  home,  with  his  poor 
weak  father  sitting  in  the  chimney  corner ;  but  there  was  a 
fire  in  the  boy  that  would  light  up  that  home  ;  at  any  rate 
they  would  be  cheerful  for  one  day.  The  apprentice,  with 
the  first  solid  fruits  of  industry  in  his  pocket,  sallied  forth 
to  buy  the  dinner.  The  ingredients  of  a  beefsteak  pie  were 
quickly  got  together,  and  the  purchaser  returned  to  be 
rewarded  with  the  proud  look  of  his  father.  To  earn  the 
pie  was  one  thiug,  but  who  could  make  it  1  Young  Douglas 
would  try  his  hand  at  a  crust  !  Merrily  the  manufacture 
went  forward ;  the  pie  was  made.  Then  the  little  busy 
fellow  saw  that  he  must  carry  it  to  the  bakehouse.  Wil- 
lingly went  he  forth  :  for,  with  the  balance  of  his  money,  it 
had  been  agreed  that  he  should  hire  the  last  of  Sir  Walter's 
volumes,  and  return  to  read  it  to  his  father  while  the  dinner 
was  in  the  oven.  The  memory  of  this  day  always  remained 
vivid  to  him.  There  was  an  odd  kind  of  humour  about  it 
that  tickled  him.     It  so  thoroughly  illustrated  his  notions 


ARRIVAL  IN  LONDON.  39 

on  independence,  that  he  could  not  forbear  from  dwelling 
again  and  again  on  it  among  his  friends.  "Yes,  sir,"  he 
would  say,  emphatically,  "  I  earned  the  pie,  I  made  the  pie, 
I  took  it  to  the  bakehouse,  I  fetched  it  home  ;  and  my  father 
said,  '  Really  the  boy  made  the  crust  remarkably  well'  " 

At  this  time  Walter  Scott  was  still  a  great  mystery.  The 
state  of  the  literary  world  was  exciting  enough.  Leigh  Hunt 
was  editing  the  Examiner,  and,  in  spite  of  his  two  years'  im- 
prisonment, was  still  a  liberal  to  the  back-bone.  For  Shelley 
was  with  him,  talking  wild  radicalism  at  Hampstead,  or 
discussing  the  destinies,  as  the  two  friends  rode  into  town 
hi  the  stage.  Godwin's  "  Political  Justice ''  swayed  the 
minds  of  the  poets  in  spite  of  Malthus  ;  and  their  hearts 
burned  fiercely.  Already  Charles  Lamb  was  a  middle-aged 
man.  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  were  at  work,  and  Byron 
was  quarrelling  with  his  wife,  and  staving  off  duns.  Cobbett 
was  firing  the  breasts  of  the  people,  and  announcing  the 
meeting  of  the  Reformed  Parliament  in  1818.  Hectic  Keats 
was  looking  suspiciously  at  the  editor  of  the  Examiner  ;  and 
his  friend,  the  rich  poet.  Godwin  was  in  distress,  and  Lord 
Byron  wished  to  relieve  him  out  of  the  oroceeds  of  the 
"  Siege  of  Corinth  "  and  "  Parisina." 

The  first  faint  movements  of  a  strong  Reform  party  were 
visible.  The  working  classes  were  angry.  There  was 
machine  breaking,  and  there  were  violent  clubs.  The  old 
Tories  were  fading  from  the  foreground,  to  make  way  for 
ministers  better  adapted  to  control  the  passions,  and  under- 
stand the  just  demands,  of  the  people.  There  was  a  poli- 
tical fever  abroad,  and  the  young  took  it  easily.  Many 
boys  were  now  observing  the  strife,  who  were  destined  to 
take  an  important  part  in  the  victory.  The  first  years  of 
the  peace,  with  the  liberal  enthusiasm  thereof,  and  the  great 
men  who  then  boldly  spoke,  tinged,  for  the  public  good,  the 
minds  of  a  hundred  youths,  who  have  since  fought  well  in 
behalf  of  the  people.     And  these  years  were  remembered 


40  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

vividly  by  the  young  printer,  who,  although  obscure  enough 
ut  the  time,  watched  the  conflict  of  opinion  ;  caught  the 
generous  flame  that  followed  stormy  Byron  to  his  exile  :  and 
put  his  trust  in  the  growth  of  that  manful  public  expression 
which  Hunt,  and  Cobbett,  and  Hone,  and  others,  were  in- 
trepidly rearing  against  the  Tory  stronghold.  In  the  quiet 
town  of  Norwich,  a  young  girl,  destined  presently  to  teach 
the  people  political  truths  in  simple  stories,  was  still  growing 
for  her  work.  Macaulay  was  at  Cambridge,  girding  himself 
for  the  second  Craven  scholarship.  Hood  was  meditating  his 
quaint  and  pathetic  utterings.  Carlyle  was  already  scowling 
at  the  century.  The  "  fat  Adonis  "  was  the  target  of  every 
malignant  tongue. 

Never  has  the  country  been  in  greater  peril  than  she  was' 
in  those  days,  when  there  were  men  of  lofty  genius  ranged 
against  the  court  and  the  aristocracy ;  and  when  the  court, 
by  its  excesses,  justified  the  most  democratic  tirades.  Never 
were  reformers  nursed  in  a  fiercer  conflict  of  opinion.    • 

We  have  arrived  at  days  of  calm  discussion.  We  live  in 
a  time  when  parties  are  divided  by  very  fine  lines.  One 
faction  slopes  into  another,  as  foreground  melts  into  distance, 
in  a  flat  landscape.  But  in  the  days  of  the  Regency  ;  when 
the  Princess  Charlotte  died  ;  when  Lord  Sidmouth  waged 
his  war  against  political  writers  ;  when  Cobbett  ran  away 
because,  as  an  editor,  he  was  liable  to  "  imprisonment  without 
a  hearing;"  and  when  quaint,  fearless  little  Hone  rummaged 
his  tattered  papers  before  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  suc- 
cessfully defied  the  Tory  malignity  of  ministers — in  these 
days  of  scurrilous  and  indecent  pamphleteering,  when  the 
bold  utterances  of  the  people  were  beginning  to  startle  the 
aristocracy  and  the  throne,  it  was  natural  that  a  young 
printer,  who  had  already  seen  something  of  life  ;  whose 
temperament  was  combative,  and  whose  sympathies  were 
for  *:he  weak  and  the  oppressed,  should  throw  himself  fiercely 
into  the  strife. 


ARRIVAL   IN  LONDON.  41 

Tnat  ill  his  fourteenth  year  my  father  had  already  deter- 
mined to  write — that  the  fever  of  literary  production  already 
possessed  him — is  proved,  not  hy  his  hold  speech  to  Mr. 
Wilkinson,  "  I'll  write  a  piece  for  you,"  hut  by  the  fact  that, 
when  the  popular  representative  of  Jeffrey  Muffincap  re- 
turned from  the  provinces  in  1817,  the  hoy's  promise  had 
not  been  forgotten.  The  piece  was  not  written,  it  is  true, 
till  the  following  year  ;  but  in  the  meantime  the  bold  little 
printer  had  thrown  off  various  scraps  of  thought,  as  we  shall 
presently  see.  He  had  been  trying  the  wings  of  his  Pegasus. 
As  he  began  to  cast  together  bits  of  verse,  and  to  ponder 
long  works,  he  still  read  eagerlv,  in  the  intervals  of  labour. 
The  circumstances  of  his  parents  became  easier  in  1817,  than 
they  had  been  since  the  family  departure  from  Sheerness  ; 
and  his  opportunities  for  study  were  consequently  improved. 
Still  Shakspeare  was  his  chief  delight.  Every  page  of  the 
bard  of  Avon  was  fairly  mastered.  The  boy's  soul  was  full 
of  the  magic  music,  and  it  remained  full  to  the  end.  He 
was  often  heard  to  say  that,  when  he  was  a  very  young 
man,  nobody  could  quote  a  line  of  Shakspeare  to  him  to 
which  he  could  not  instantly  add  the  next  line.  "  Young 
men  now-a-days,"  he  would  often  repeat,  "  read  neither  their 
Bible  nor  their  Shakspeare  enough." 

Edmund  Kean  was  at  Drury  Lane,  John  Kemble  was  at 
Covent  Garden,  and  Mathews  was  drawing  crowds  to  the 
English  Opera  House.  The  former  remembered  the  Sheer- 
ness manager's  son,  gave  him  orders,  and  was  in  other  ways 
kind  to  him.  Mr.  James  Russell  remembers  Samuel  Jerrold's 
fair-haired  boy  about  this  time,  and  retains  a  vivid  recol. 
lection  of  his  wild  enthusiasm.  Mr.  Russell  had  been  in 
one  of  Mr.  Samuel  Jerrold's  troupes,  as  an  actor.  Together 
they  had  passed  through  hard  times.  They  had  played 
together  in  a  barn  at  Dorking,  and  in  a  carpenter's  shop  at 
Harrow.  When,  the  business  having  been  bad,  the  hapless 
manager  had   been  compelled  to  leave  his  watch  and   pink 


42  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

satin  suit  behind  him  in  pawn,  the  troupe  still  held  together, 
for  the  unfortunate  theatrical  speculator  was  a  man  most  scru- 
pulous in  the  fulfilment  of  his  engagements.  "  Samuel  Jer- 
rold  was,"  says  Mr.  Russell,  "  the  only  really  honest  manager 
I  ever  knew."  Therefore,  when  almost  friendless,  and  with 
broken  fortunes,  he  appeared  in  London,  the  grateful  actor 
came  to  the  side  of  his  old  manager.  Together,  they  went 
to  see  John  Kemble  at  Covent  Garden,  where  the  former 
enthusiastic  wearer  of  Garrick's  shoes  declared  that  John 
was  "as  good  as  Garrick  in  Hamlet.''  The  old  gentleman's 
son,  Douglas,  was  destined  to  receive  presently  from  a  Kemble 
(Charles)  a  return  compliment.  "  The  Bubbles  of  the  Day" 
said  Charles  Kemble,  "  has  enough  wit  for  three  comedies." 

But  it  was  to  Edmund  Kean  that  "  young  Douglas  "  gave 
all  his  enthusiasm.  He  kept  in  his  soul  a  happy  remem- 
brance of  the  actor  who,  according  to  him,  approached  nearer 
to  Shakspeare's  Hamlet  than  any  player  he  ever  saw. 
Wherever  Edmund  Kean  appeared,  there  his  devoted  young 
admirer  endeavoured  to  be,  his  eager  blue  eyes  drinking  in 
the  genius  of  his  model.  It  was  then,  while  his  enthusiasm 
was  at  its  height,  that  he  first  put  pen  to  paper.  For  twelve 
hours  daily  he  was  in  Mr.  Sidney's  printing  office  ;  but  this 
long  service  was  broken  by  intervals  for  rest  and  food,  and  in 
these  intervals  reading  and  writing  could  be  done.  Both  were 
accomplished.  Sonnets,  short  papers,  verses  on  the  usual 
young  boys'  subjects,  began  to  ooze  from  him.  Now  he 
would  take  a  scrap  of  verse  to  his  kind  friend,  Mr.  Russell, 
and  tremblingly  ask  his  advice  ;  and  now  he  would  gird 
himself  up  for  a  long  work,  bearing  still  in  mind,  and  tena- 
ciously clinging  to  it,  his  promise  to  write  a  piece  for  Mr. 
Wilkinson.  His  spare  short  figure,  covered  by  a  green  frock 
coat,  might  have  been  seen  hastening  any  evening  from  Nor- 
thumberland Street,  Strand,  to  the  paternal  roof.  The  head 
was  burning  to  be  at  its  proper  work.  Restless  ever,  seeking 
to  stride  with  a  seven-league  boot  over  the  thorny  way  that 


ARUIYAL   W   LONDON.  43 

lies  between  obscurity  and  fame,  there  remained  little  or 
none  of  the  pleasures  of  youth  to  this  warrior  spirit.  He  had 
clenched  those  little  fists,  and  made  a  deep  and  solemn  cove- 
nant with  himself.  He  had  something  fierce  to  say  to  the 
selfish  great,  to  the  unchristian  arrogant.  The  compositor's 
stick  was  by  no  means  the  weapon  with  which  he  proposed  to 
belabour  the  foes  of  the  people.  As  he  sat  in  the  pit  of  the 
great  theatres,  listening  to  the  splendid  elocution  of  Kean, 
or  as  he  laughed  at  the  wondrous  drolleries  of  Mathews, 
certainly  the  passion  grew  upon  him  to  be  something  within 
these  dazzling  walls.  Nor  was  he  long  in  making  the 
endeavour  to  be  interpreted  upon  the  stage.  Let  us  hearken 
to  his  faithful  friend  and  adviser,  Mr.  Wilkinson  : — "  In 
1818  (his  fifteenth  year),  I  presume,  he  wrote  his  first 
piece.  It  was  sent  in  to  Mr.  Arnold,  of  the  English  Opera 
House,  and  it  remained  in  the  theatre  for  two  years.  It  was 
probably  never  read.  After  some  difficulty  he  got  it  back. 
In  the  year  1821  Mr.  Egerton,  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
becoming  manager  of  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,  and  I  having  a 
short  time  to  spare  between  the  closing  of  the  Adelphi  and 
the  opening  of  the  Lyceum,  he  wished  me  to  engage  with  him 
for  a  few  weeks,  which  I  did,  but  on  condition  of  his  pur- 
chasing the  farce  which  had  been  returned  from  the  English 
Opera  House,  and  producing  it  on  the  first  night  of  my 
engagement,  giving  me  the  character  intended  for  me.  The 
original  title  of  this  piece  was  The  Duellists — a  weak  title,  I 
thought,  for  Sadler's  Wells ;  so  I  re-christened  it,  calling  it 
More  Frightened  than  Hurt.  It  was  performed,  for  the  first 
time,  on  Monday,  the  30th  of  April,  1821,  in  its  author's 
eighteenth  year.  "*     It  was  received,  according  to  the  play- 

*  The  young  and  unknown  author— become  a  celebrity — did  not  forget 
bis  early  benefactor.  Writing,  many  years  after  the  appearance  of  More 
Frightened  than  Hurt  to  Mr.  John  Forster,  the  author  said:  "I  have 
twice  called  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  in  the  hope  of  consulting  you  upon  a 
little  matter  wiih  reference  to  a  most  worthy  and  most  ill-used  man — poor 
Wilkinson,  tue  actor,  au  excellent  creature.     Dickens  lias  very  cordially 


44  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

bills,  with  rapturous  applause.  "  It  was,"  continues  Mr. 
Wilkinson,  "  highly  successful,  and,  however  meanly  the 
author  may  have  thought  of  it  in  after  days,  it  had  merit 
enough  to  be  translated  and  acted  on  the  French  stage  ; 
and,  oddly  enough,  some  years  after  it  had  been  produced  in 
France,  Mr.  Kenney  being  in  Paris,  saw  it  played  there, 
and,  not  knowing  its  history,  thought  it  worth  his  while  to 
re-translate  it ;  and  he  actually  brought  it  out  at  Madame 
Vestris's  Olympic  Theatre,  under  the  name  of  Fighting  by 
Proxy,  Mr.  Liston  sustaining  the  character  originally  per- 
formed by  me." 

This  first  experience  of  the  stage  was  encouraging — this 
first  contact  with  the  translator  at  once  flattering  and  gall- 
ing :  but  the  farce  written  by  the  boy  of  fifteen  sparkled 
with  bright  retorts,  and  the  plot  was  one  full  of  comic 
action.  Popeseye,  the  son  of  a  butcher,  aspires  to  the  hand 
of  a  Miss  Easy,  who  is  in  love  with  another  suitor,  and 
despises  the  young  native  of  Newgate  Market.  She  resolves 
with  her  sister,  who  is  also  courted  by  a  vulgar  lover,  and 
loves  another,  to  draw  Popeseye  into  a  duel  with  the  second 
obnoxious  suitor,  a  bullying  coward,  and  the  meeting  of  the 
two  cowards  gives  the  chief  point  to  the  farce.  Popeseye 
became  a  favourite  part ;  it  gave  good  play  to  low  come- 
dians. The  bully  butcher,  cowed  by  real  danger,  yet  insen- 
sible to  pain,  bringing  the  slang  of  the  shambles 'into  juxta- 
position with  the  refinement  of  a  drawing  room,  made  up  a 
character  to  which  Mr.  Wilkinson,  a  delineator  of  cowardice 
as  complete  as  Keeley,  gave  all  the  delicate  touches  with  the 
most  unctuous  humour.  When  he  said,  "  It's  very  hard  I 
can't  have  a  wife  without  fighting,  but  I  suppose  I  must  not 
expect  the  one  without  the  other  ; "  and  again,  when  the 
bully  Hector  calls  him  a  "  calf-killing  rascal,"  and  he  quietly 

given  his  name  as  committee-man  (there  will  be  no  trouble)  for  patronage 
of  a  benefit — a  farewell  of  the  staye — for  poor  old  Mujjincap.  I  want 
your  name  too,"  kc. 


ARRIVAL  IX  LONDON.  45 

replies,  "  Then  don't  put  yourself  in  my  hands,"  the  points 
were  given  with  masterly  neatness.  And  the  actor  was  un- 
doubtedly proud  to  see  his  young  protege  successful  with  a 
piece  written  at  the  ripe  age  of  fifteen. 

But  there  was  -a  long  gap  between  the  time  when  More 
Frightened  than  Hurt  was  written  and  the  day  of  its  first 
appearance  at  Sadler's  Wells  ;  there  were  those  long  weary 
months  when  it  lay  in  Mr.  Arnold's  cupboard.  No  summer 
time  this  to  the  young  printer  who  had  burned  with  en- 
thusiasm— whose  cheeks  had  been  flushed  with  hope  as  he 
wrote  it.  Yet,  the  more  the  world  set  its  teeth  at  him, 
the  firmer  were  his  little  fists  clenched.  Ay,  he  would 
work  his  way  into  the  sunlight ;  aud  his  kind  friend,  Mr. 
Russell,  gave  him  promise  of  the  coming  shine.  "  Russell," 
said  Douglas  Jerrold,  the  successful  author,  '*  Russell  was  the 
only  man,  when  I  was  a  poor  boy,  who  gave  me  hope."  The 
elegant  critic,  the  friend  of  Walter  Scott,  had  the  sagacity  to 
see  the  brilliant  promise  that  lay  in  the  fervent  mind,  and 
the  daring  courage,  of  the  printer's  little  apprentice.  He 
noticed  his  craving  for  the  English  classics,  and  patted  the 
boy  on  the  back,  as  he  appealed  to  him  for  counsel.  He 
could  see  how  the  young  aspirant  was  catching  the  spirit  of 
journalism,  and  how  he  was  tending  swiftly  to  his  true  voca- 
tion.* Mr.  Sidney,  with  whom  he  worked,  was  the  pro- 
prietor of  Pierce  Egan's  Life  in  London,  which  subsequently 
merged  into  BelCs  Life,  and,  as  I  have  already  written,  in  this 
printer's  office  my  father  first  came  in  direct  contact  with 
journalism  ;  but  he  never  contributed,  or,  so  far  as  I  know, 
sought  to  contribute,  to  Mr.  Sidney's  periodical.  He  was 
only  sixteen  years  of  age  when,  his  master  becoming  bank- 
rupt, he  was  transferred  to  the  printing  offices  of  Mr.  Bigg, 
in  Lombard  Street. 

*  The  remains  of  the  accomplished,  high-minded  James  Russell  now  lie 
in  Norwood  Cemetery,  as  near  the  grave  of  Douglas  Jerrold  as  it  was 
possible  to  lay  them. 


46  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

It  has  been  said  often  that  Douglas  Jerrold's  first  printed 
words  appeared  in  the  Sunday  Monitor,  then  edited  and 
printed  by  his  employer  of  Lombard  Street ;  but  this  is  not 
the  fact.  The  author  of  More  Frightened  than  Hurt,  follow- 
ing the  almost  invariable  tendency  of  young  men  with  some- 
thing to  say,  first  tempted  the  judgment  of  the  public  by  bits 
of  fugitive  verse  ;  and  this  in  Arlisss  Magazine,  a  periodical 
long  since  forgotten.  From  the  moment  when  he  came  in 
contact  with  journals,  he  began  to  cast  off  sonnets,  epigrams, 
and  short  quaint  papers.  It  is  true  that  the  young  com- 
positor, having  an  order  to  see  Der  Freischiltz,  went  to  the 
theatre,  and  became  so  possessed  with  the  harmony  of  the 
work  that  he  wrote  a  critical  paper  on  it,  and  dropped  the 
composition  into  Mr.  Bigg's  letter-box. 

He  passed  an  anxious  night,  we  may  be  certain,  when 
this  adventurous  step  had  been  taken.  And  that  was  a 
bright  morrow  when  the  editor  handed  him  his  own  article  to 
compose,  together  with  an  address  to  the  anonymous  corre- 
spondent, asking  for  further  contributions.  His  way  from 
the  case  to  the  writer's  desk  was  bridged,  though  years  might 
pass  before  he  should  be  able  finally  to  pass  from  the  me- 
chanical drudgery  to  the  intellectual  pursuit.  It  is  true,  I 
repeat,  that  my  father's  first  article  in  the  Monitor  was  a 
criticism  on  Der  Freischiltz,  but  it  is  not  true  that  this  article 
was  his  first  appearance  in  print. 

With  his  vehement  nature,  his  capacity  for  study  before 
sunrise  on  winter  mornings,  and  his  haste  to  be  at  war  with 
the  wrong  he  saw  about  him,  he  was  not  likely  to  leave  the 
sixpenny  magazines  without  some  of  his  "  early  mutterings.'' 
His  sisters  remembered  the  boisterous  delight  with  which  he 
would  occasionally  bound  into  the  house,  with  a  little  publi- 
cation in  his  hand,  shouting,  "  It's  in,  it's  in  ! " 

Yes,  his  words  were  laid  before  the  public  in  the  imposing 
dignity  of  type.  The  honour  warmed  the  boy's  heart,  as  it 
has  warmed  the  heart  of  many  boys  before  and  since. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EARLY    FRIENDSHIPS    AXD    MARRIAGE. 

The  "  Liberal  "  had  failed  ;  and  Byron  at  Genoa,  in  1S23, 
was  restless,  his  eager  eyes  turned  towards  Greece — to  the 
regions  about  the  "  blue  Olympus.''  He  would  do  something 
yet,  "  the  times  and  fortuue  permitting."  He  did  not  now 
think  that  literature  was  his  vocation.  No,  the  field  of 
battle  was  his  natural  ground ;  and  thither,  in  the  sacred 
name  of  liberty,  would  he  make  his  way,  even  from  the  side 
of  Madame  Guiccioli.  In  May  he  is  already  writing  to  the 
London  Greek  Committee  that  "  a  park  of  field  artillery, 
light,  and  fit  for  mountain  service  ;  secondly,  gunpowder ; 
thirdly,  hospital,  or  medical  stores,"  are  necessary.  He  is 
burning  to  be  in  action,  to  wear  his  new  helmet,  and  ride  in 
the  front  of  battle. 

And  to  London  came  the  ecnoes  of  his  valiant  words — the 
reports  of  his  courageous  pm-pose.  It  is  a  drizzling,  cold, 
and  wretched  day  in  the  great  Babylon.  Lumbering  hackney 
coaches,  and  cabs  of  quaint  appearance,  rumble  along  Hol- 
born.  Men  and  womeu  are  hurrying,  murmuring,  like  bees, 
to  and  fro  ;  and  under  a  certain  doorway  stand  two  young 
men,  protected  from  the  weather.  One  is  a  darkdiaired 
young  man,  with  most  sparkling  eyes,  a  broad  white  brow, 
iuid  colour  as  delicate  as  any  girl's.  He  is  taller  than  his 
companion,  who  has  light,  flowing  hair,  a  marked  aquiline 
nose,  fiery  eyes  thatched  with  massive  eyebrows — a  mouth 
that  most  expressively  shapes  itself  in  aid  of  the  meanings 


48  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

expressed  by  the  voice.  The  companions  are  two  young 
and  dear  friends.  They  met  lately  by  accident,  and  now  are 
never  apart,  except  to  work  or  sleep.  The  same  fever  burns 
in  these  two  remarkable  young  heads.  Examine  each,  and 
you  shall,  although  no  magician,  read  much  of  the  future 
story  of  both  in  their  open,  glowing  faces — the  nervous, 
finely-strung  sensibilities  of  the  dark  and  flushed  youth,  that 
shall  win  him  hundreds  of  tender  friends,  yet  bring  to  him 
sorrows  thick  almost  as  joys ;  the  fiery  fervour  and  daring 
strength  of  the  lesser  man,  with  his  leonine  head,  pre- 
saging a  savage  hand-to-hand  fight,  and  the  grasp  of  the 
enemy's  flag  in  the  end. 

Laman  Blanchard  and  Douglas  Jerrold  met  by  accident 
before  either  friend  had  reached  his  majority.  The  latter 
was  pushing  his  way,  by  slow  degrees,  into  the  tramway  of 
current  journalism  ;  the  former  was  writing  graceful  poesy, 
to  be  presently  gathered  into  a  volume  of  "  Lyric  Offerings," 
and  published  by  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Yet  their  common 
subject  just  now,  as  they  stood  under  the  gateway  protected 
from  the  rain,  was  of  Byron  and  liberty.  The  noble  poet 
was  their  idol  of  the  hour.  He  was  a  bard,  and  he  was  the 
champion  of  liberty.  Why  should  they  not  follow  him — 
join  him  in  Greece  1  The  two  friends  were  roused  to  frenzy 
with  the  idea,  and  the  fair,  blue-eyed  one,  suddenly  seeing 
the  ludicrous  position  of  two  Greek  crusaders  sneaking  out 
of  a  shower  of  rain,  dashed  into  the  wet,  saying,  "  Come, 
►Sam,  if  we're  going  to  Greece,  we  mustn't  be  afraid  of  a 
shower  of  rain." 

But  the  rain  poured  down,  and  the  pair  got  valorously  wet 
to  the  skin.  "  I  fear,"  said  Douglas  Jerrold,  years  after- 
wards, recalling  the  incident,  "  I  fear  the  rain  washed  all  the 
Greece  out  of  us."  When  Byron  died,  Douglas  Jerrold  wrote 
in  a  volume  of  his  poems  : — 

"  God,  wanting  fire  to  tive  a  million  birth, 
Touk  BjVfln's  soul  to  animate  their  earth." 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIPS  AND  MARRIAGE.  49 

The  rain  had  not  even  then  washed  all  the  Greek  romance 
out  of  one,  at  least,  of  the  enthusiasts. 

It  is  likely  that  more  sentimental  reasons  might  be  put 
on  record  to  explain  the  defection  of  the  two  friends  from  the 
popular  cause  of  Greek  freedom.  They  were  both  in  love. 
Day  after  day  the  author  of  More  Frightened  than  Hurt, 
having  completed  his  duties  with  Mr.  Bigg,  would  make  his 
way  to  the  house  of  his  betrothed,  bearing  a  scrap  of  criticism 
or  a  contribution  to  the  Belle  Assemblee,  or  his  last  article  on 
the  "  Alinor-ies."*  published  in  the  Mirror  of  the  Stage,  a 
bi-monthly  issue,  put  forth  by  the  well-known  John  Dun- 
combe,  proprietor  of  the  "  New  Acting  Drama."  Then  the 
pair  of  lovers  would  devote  Sundays  to  suburban  walks.  Be 
very  certain  that  they  were  happy,  with  the  lofty  thoughts 
that  made  a  perpetual  holiday  in  the  hearts  of  the  gallant-;. 
The  shallowness  of  the  purse  was  compensated  in  the  shape 
of  burning  sonnets  and  most  pathetic  serenades.  Very  few 
were  the  men,  of  even  minor  mark,  the  two  bold  boys  knew 
yet.  Their  prospects  were  not  brilliant  as  the  world  would 
have  estimated  them  ;  but,  as  they  read  the  future,  it  bright- 
ened and  gave  them  heart.  The  author  of  the  "Minor-ies" 
had,  however,  already  produced  four  pieces,  for  which  the 
munificent  Mr.  Egerton,  of  Sadler's  Wells,  had  given  him 
<£20  ;t  and  this  dramatic  start  had  probably  brought  him 
into  connection  with  the  theatrical  publisher,  John  Dun- 
combe,  for  whom  he  wrote  dramatic  descriptions  in  the  inter- 
vals allowed  for  recreation  or  rest  by  Mr.  Bigg.  A  very 
humble  opening  to  the  press  was  this.  His  success  as  a  critic 
on  the  Monitor,  indeed,  gave  him  little  more  than  the  hope 
that,  in  the  future,  he  might  make  a  stand  of  some  account 
in  London  journalism. 

*  These  articles  were  critical  descriptions  of  the  popular  actors  of  the 
minor  theatres — Vale,  Buckingham,  Elliott,  for  instance. 

f  1.   More  Frightened  than  Hurt.      2.   The  Smoked  Miser.      3.   The 

Witch  of  Derncleugh  (a  version  of  Guy  Manner  ing).     4.   Christian  and 

his  Comrades. 

E 


50  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

But  at  this  present  period  of  my  father's  story  I  am  anxious 
to  dwell  on  that  romantic  friendship  which  remained  a  bright 
thing  to  him  to  his  latest  hour.  For  Laman  Blanchard  he 
felt  a  most  tender  devotion,  that  was  certain,  long  after  his 
friend  was  dead,  to  bubble  up  many  times  in  the  running 
out  of  every  year.  He  never  spoke  of  this  great  friendship 
that  his  voice  did  not  falter.  They  quarrelled,  and  were  re- 
conciled, with  the  vehemence  and  the  enthusiasm  of  lovers. 

The  following  letter — the  outburst  of  a  turbulent,  over- 
taxed mind — was  written  when  my  father  was  entering  on 
man's  estate.  It  is  the  earliest  preserved  in  Mr.  Blanchard's 
collection  : — 

"MY   DEBT. 

'  Yes,  I  am  your  debtor.  I  owe  you  not  ingots  of  gold, 
whose  borrowing  damns  the  mind  with  sense  of  obligation ;  but 
I  owe  you  some  delirious  throbs,  a  quick  pulsation  of  the  heart,  a 
delicious  wiklering  of  the  brain ;  a  dew,  which  in  my  short  pilgrim- 
age thro'  this  world's  desert,  few  have  proffered  to  my  parched 
spirit.  But  now,  my  senses  were  a  storm,  tho'  a  few  hours  since  I 
left  you  in  apparent  tranquillity, — my  bosom's  tumult  scared  re- 
flection,— a  mist  of  things,  a  complication  of  events  thronged  on 
my  tired  soul,  and  this  frail  body,  a  victim  to  engulphing  circum- 
stance, was  shattered,  tackle-torn,  distracted.  Oh,  if  earth  yields 
a  felicity  it  is  in  the  enjoyment  of  responsive  hearts  and  congenial 
souls  !  But  an  instant,  and  my  spirit,  stung  by  a  worldly  reptile 
(have  you  not  seen  the  steed  plunging,  foaming  beneath  the  petty 
insect's  fang  ? — there  is  no  vanity  in  the  conclusion — a  throbbing 
in  my  bosom,  a  frequent  restlessness  tells  me  that  something  of 
more  nobility  inherits  it,  than  his  who  galled  me),  broke  away 
from  reason's  world,  and  dashed  in  all  the  revelry  of  sufferance. 
Oh,  these  vermin,  these  leeches  of  the  heart,  that  from  an 
hundred  lacerated  pores  lick  in  their  loathsome  meal,  gorge  wath 
tenacious  appetite  upon  the  best,  the  fairest  atoms  of  humanity, 
whose  throes  of  torture  speak  the  wealth  that's  losing.  Such 
was  my  feeling.  Now  it  is  past,  and  I  enjoy  the  calmness  which 
succeeds  the  hurricane  of  passion.  I  can  now  smile  at  my  per- 
secutor, when  but  a  short  time  since,  would  I  have  embodied 
annihilation  with  my  look,  goaded  misery  had  inflicted.    This  is  no 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  51 

set  writing;  I  do  not  stay  to  turn  a  sentence  or  scarcely  erase  a 
syllable ;  my  heart  is  in  every  word ;  and  what  form  should 
trammel  the  heart's  overflowing  ?  An  hour  since,  as  I  threaded 
the  streets,  I  felt  as  if  each  face  came  forcibly  dull  upon  my 
sense ;  a  ponderous  look  that  beat  back  the  peering  outstretched 
form  of  hope ;  statues  had  gained  animation ;  their  workings 
were  in  motion;  each  form  around  me  was  mechanically  precise. 
one  wheeled  eastward,  another  west.  I  stood  upon  the  pave- 
ment, and  methought  as  I  gazed  on  the  insensible  crowd  around 
me,  at  times  enlivened  by  the  shippings  of  frivolity,  that  I  was 
isolated  from  humanity, — shut  out  from  the  world.  Oh,  how 
my  soul  sickened  as  I  thought  on  my  lonebness  !  Here  ye  are, 
poor  heartless  creatures,  and  would  you  pause  a  step  if  the 
wretched  being  whom  you  elbow  in  your  uncouth  gait,  were  to 
fall  lifeless  in  your  path  ?  Are  there  any  that  would  care  ?  Yes, 
for  a  time,  the  usual  sable  garb  would  say,  'one  has  left  us,'  and 
the  coat  and  gown  that  mourned  his  death  would  share  the  shov^ 
of  sorrow  with  the  pride  of  fashion  in  the  cut  of  skirt  and  dis- 
play of  flounce. 

"And  am  I  to  journey  onward  alone  ?  Is  there  no  eye  shall 
gleam  in  the  beautiful  light  of  sincerity  a  welcome  on  my 
approach  ?  Is  there  no  hand  that  with  a  kindred  grasp  shall 
return  my  hold  ?  Am  I  for  ever  to  be  the  poor  wretch,  the 
hunted  pauper,  at  whose  unhallowed  form  each  sordid,  pampered 
fool  ejects  his  clinging  missile  ?  Agonised  by  previous  insult, 
wearied,  and  with  that  sickness  of  heart  which  sheds  a  blight 
over  hope  and  energy,  I  came  home.  What  is  home?  The 
concentration  of  every  thing  beloved  and  loving  ?  The  space 
into  whose  small  circle  are  gathered  the  sweets  of  existence — the 
odour  of  life?  Have  I  such  a  home?  Affection  is  there,  it  is 
true  ;  but  roses  are  of  several  leaf,  their  perfume  varies  and  tlvii 
lines  are  different.  If  that  I  am  sad,  a  worldly,  surpris.il 
'Why?'  makes  me  more  wretched  ;  to  seem  gay  I  must  be  a 
fool.  I  looked  around  the  inhabited  apartment,  and  found  it 
enrpty.  I  went  into  another  room,  and  took  from  my  pocket 
'  The  Present.'  I  do  not  think  you  will  wrong  me  with  the  title 
of  flatterer;  you  ought  not.  As  I  proceeded  in  reading,  my 
;  .  i  ><  beat  and  my  blood  circled  warmer;  tho  mists  that  h 
upon  my  soul  dissolved  before  my  brightening  fancy;  I  forgot 
the  late  commenting  thing,  the  Btone-visaged  populace,  and  my 
heart  leapt  as  though  it  had  long  been  wandering  in  a  strange 

k  2 


•2  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

laud,  amid  foreign  mobs,  and  far  from  all  it  prized,  was  chilled  by 
the  freezing  apathy  around  it,  when  to  awake  its  torpor,  to  yield 
it  life  and  grateful  animation,  a  well-known,  valued,  long- 
beloved  being  darted  from  the  crowd,  and  greeted  it  with  blessed 
fellowship.     Such  were  my  feelings  ;  believe  them. 

' '  What  have  I  said  ?  or  what  does  it  import  ?  Perhaps  nothing. 
But  an  irresistible  impulse  placed  my  pen  within  my  hand,  pas- 
sionate sincerity  guided  its  movements  ;  it  may  have  wantoned 
in  error  as  to  polish  of  words,  but  not  to  words. 

"Douglas  William  Jerrold. 

'Friday  night,  12  o'clock, 
"Jan,  2nd,  1824." 

The  following  letter,  in  a  boyish  hand,  betrays  the  same 
vehement  internal  working  of  the  mind  : — 

"  Dear  Blaktchard, 

"Were  I  to  write  to  one  of  the  herd,  I  might  be 
tempted  to  torture  out  compHrnent,  and  well-turned  phrase- 
ology. With  you  I  cannot.  I  know  your  valuation  of  the 
accompanying  work,  and  I  experience  a  feeling  of  (till  late  only 
imagined)  pleasure  in  the  belief,  that  it  will  not  be  less  estimated 
as  being  the  gift  of,  thine  in  union  of  soul, 

"  JERROLD. 
"  Thursday  night,  12." 

Each  was  so  profoundly  known  to  the  other,  that  they  found 
it  impossible  to  let  their  early  friendship  dwindle  to  that  cool 
regard  which  men  generally  extend,  in  later  life,  to  their 
"  circle  of  acquaintance."  A  letter  from  Laman  Blanchard, 
undated,  but  which  must  have  been  written  about  the  year 
1826,  lies  before  me.  It  invites  "  Dear  Doug"  to  a  party  at 
Kichmond  : — 

"  I  need  not  say"  (writes  Blanchard),  "  at  least,  I  think  not, 
how  much  of  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  the  ramble  will  depend 
upon  your  joining  it.  Wednesday  is  selected  as  your  convenient 
day,  and  I  hope  you  will  make  some  little  exertion  to  join  us,  if 
it  were  only  to  afford  me  an  opportunity  of  renewing,  or  rather 
or  terminating,  our  conversation  of  Sunday  night,  and  to  con- 
vince you  how  little  excuse  you  have  for  misinterpreting  my 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  53 

conduct,  when  you,  of  all  persons  in  the  ■world,  are  the  very  one 
that  should  most  clearly  understand  it.  Such  as  my  nature  is, 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  has  been  almost  moulded  by 
you ;  and  certainly,  of  late  years,  nothing  has  been  admitted 
into  it  that  has  not  received  your  stamp  and  sanction.  It  has 
been,  and  is,  my  pride  to  think  and  act  with  you  on  all  important 
subjects ;  and  for  lesser  matters,  as  they  are  the  mere  dirt  that 
adheres  to  the  scales  of  opinion,  let  them  not  turn  the  balance 
against  me,  nor  prevent  me  from  retaining  that  fair  and  even 
place  in  your  thoughts  which  it  is  one  of  the  best  consolations  of 
my  life  to  believe  that  you  have  assigned  me. 

"If  you  can,  independently  of  any  occasional  fit  of  perverse 
temper,  conceive  seriously  that  I  do  not  give  you  credit  for  the 
many,  or  I  should  say  the  numberless,  marks  of  sympathy  and 
kindness  towards  me  during  our  intercourse  ;  or  if  you  think  I 
can  share  my  mind  with  others  as  I  have  done  with  you,  let  me 
refer  you  to  a  passage  in  'Childe  Harold'  commencing, — 

'  Oh  !  known  the  earliest  and  esteem'd  the  most.'' 

' '  If  you  should  wonder  why  I  have  taken  the  pains  to  write 
all  this  dry  detail  of  feelings  which  we  mutually  recognised  and 
appreciated  long  ago,  it  is  because  the  conversation  that  occa- 
sions it  has  made  a  deeper  impression  than  you  are  aware  of, 
perhaps  than  you  intended,  and  more  particularly  as  the  feeling 
has  displayed  itself  in  two  or  three  less  important  quarters  at 
the  same  time.  What  is  only  teasing  in  indifferent  persons,  is 
something  approaching  to  torture  when  conveyed  by  the  hand 
which  has  been  so  long  held  out  in  faithful  and  undoubting 
friendship,  and  which  has  never  allowed  the  pressure  of  worldly 
c;il amity  to  weaken  its  grasp. 

' '  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  to-night  by  some  means. 
Can  you  call  ?  It  will  be  necessary  to  start  at  nine  for  half-past 
on  Wednesday. 

"  Believe  me  ever,  dear  Jerrold, 

"  Yours  most  sincerely, 

"S.  L.  Blancitard.' 

There  is  a  wondrous  tenderness  of  feeling — to  me,  at  least 
—  in  this  letter.  It  is  written  by  a  bruised  spirit  that  could 
be  so  easily  bruised.     All  that  womanly  quality  which  gave 


54  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JEREOLD. 

so  great  a  charm  to  the  society,  as  well  as  to  the  writings  of 
Laman  Blanchard,  may  be  found  here  in  a  warm,  yet  per- 
fectly dignified,  appeal  to  his  dearest  friend.  The  disagree- 
ment was,  it  will  have  been  seen,  a  very  trifling  one,  since  the 
friends  were  to  meet  and  row  to  Richmond  on  the  Wed- 
nesday following  the  commission  of  this  letter  to  paper  ;  but 
over  the  tender  chords  of  Blanchard's  heart  not  even  the 
least  ruffling  movement  could  pass — of  pain  or  of  pleasure 
— without  waking  there  most  thrilling  music,  mournful  or 
gay.  In  his  own  words,  however,  we  shall  discover  the  best 
key  to  his  nature. 

I  find,  treasured  fondly  among  my  father's  few  letters,  two 
more  from  his  early  friend.  That  dated  April  5th,  1842, 
still  makes  reference  to  disagreements,  to  be  covered  nobly 
by  the  everlasting  friendship  that  could  not  be  successfully 
assaulted.     Blanchard  writes  : — 

"My  dearest  Friend, 

*         *  "  My  soul  acquits  me  of  having  done 

any  wrong  to  the  sacred  feeling  that  holds  us  together ;  but  I 
must  convince  you  of  this  guiltlessness  by  something  more  im- 
pressive than  a  few  words,  and  I  will.  There  has  never  been  any 
real  reason  for  the  cessation  of  intercourse  between  us,  any  more 
than  for  the  cessation  of  the  imperishable  soul  of  friendship  that 
makes  us  one  ;  an  intercourse  only  lessened  and  dropped  on  my 
side  because  there  were  j airings  when  we  met  in  company,  and  a 
constraint  when  we  were  alone.  And  I  could  easier  bear  our 
non-meeting  than  appear  to  trifle  with  what  was  most  solemn, 
or  affect  an  indifference  which  (whatever  may  be  the  case  with 
any  such  passion  as  envy,  hatred,  or  jealousy)  is,  and  ever  must 
be  impossible.  I  could  not  go  on  meeting  you  as  I  might  any 
one  else,  with  an  uneasy  consciousness  under  the  easy  manner, 
and  the  anticipation  of  reproaches,  to  which  all  reply  must  come 
in  the  shape  of  recrimination. 

"  But  I  am  now  doing  what  I  said  was  unnecessary.  Trust 
me,  I  rejoice  most  deeply,  unfeignedly,  and  with  my  whole 
heart,  in  our  meeting  on  Saturday,  and  I  shall  date  as  from  a 
new  day.  More  you  cannot  be  to  me  than  you  have  been  for 
twenty  years ;  but  as  the  miser  who  puts  his  gold  out  to  use  is 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  56 

richer  than  he  who  locks  the  same  up  in  his  strong  box,  so  I, 
haying  the  same  friend  as  of  old,  shall  be  richer  by  turning  that 
invaluable,  that  inexpressible  blessing  to  its  true  account.  God 
bless  you  and  yours  always,  prays 

"  Your  most  affectionate  friend, 

"  Lam  an  Blanchard." 


The  quarrel,  even  in  this  instance,  was  quickly  healed,  and 
the  old,  warm  friendship  resumed,  as  we  may  fairly  gather 
from  the  following  lively  letter,  written  only  six  weeks  aftei 
the  above.  I  should  premise  that  Douglas  Jerrold  and  family 
were  in  Boulogne,  whither  Blanchard  was  most  warmly  and 
repeatedly  invited. 

Blanchard  replied  to  one  of  the  invitations  to  Boulogne,  in 
this  way  : — 

' '  Union  Place, 

"May  26th,  13-12. 

"My  dear  Jerrold. 

1 '  My  wife  was  witness  to  a  vow,  now  three  weeks  old, 
that  I  couldn't  and  wouldn't  reply  to  your  note  until  she  had 
made  up  her  mind,  yea  or  nay,  upon  the  proposal  it  contained  ; 
but  as,  with  a  consistency  marvellous  in  women,  she  continues 
to  the  close  of  the  month  in  the  same  way  of  speech,  saying, 
'Ah !  it's  all  very  nice  talking,'  and  '  It's  easy  enough  for  you,' 
and  '  Nothing  I  should  like  so  much,  but ' — and  '  Suppose 
Edmund  were  to  get  down  to  the  ditch ' — and  '  What  do  you 
think  ?  that  Miss  Mary  had  the  pork  butcher  down  in  the 
kitchen  last  night' — and  five  thousand  other  objections  rung 
upon  such  changes  as  the  house  on  fire,  the  necessary  new 
bonnetings,  the  inevitable  sea-sickness,  and  the  perils  of  the 
ocean — to  say  nothing  of  a  reserved  force  brought  up  when  all 
other  objections  are  routed,  in  the  shape  of  a  presentiment  that 

thing  will  happen — God  knows  what,  but  something — 
directly  her  back  is  turned  upon  old  England  (what  com  .she 
mean  ?) — all  this,  I  say,  induces  me  to  break  my  vow,  and 
communicate  the  indecision  and  perplexity  that  beset  us  daily. 
I  had  forgotten,  however,  the  most  solid  of  the  difficulties  that 
stand  between  us  and  you — the  others  are,  indeed,  but  spongy, 
and  might  easily  bo  stpaeezed  dry ;  but  here  is  a  bit  of  rock 


56  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

ahead  in  the  '  warning '  of  a  servant  in  whom  we  have  trust. 
She  is  going  away — away  to  be  married,  as  most  of  our  maids 
do.  This  is  about  the  sixth  in  four  years.  Better,  you  will  say, 
than  going  away  not  married,  but  really  in  the  present  case  a 
bore,  especially  if  the  other  (as  is  probable)  follows  her.  We 
should  be  left  with  two  strangers ;  and  my  wife's  natural  dread, 
almost  a  superstitious  one,  of  leaving  home— of  losing  sight  of 
her  children — of  crossing  the  water  more  especially — would  be 
increased  to  an  unsoothable  height.  At  present,  however,  it  is 
only  certain  that  one  goes,  and  so  we  must  wait  the  issue  of 
another  fortnight,  and  then  abandon  finally  all  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  procrastination — and  decide.  Never  surely  did 
God  sanctify  the  earth  with  lovelier  weather  than  now.  Even 
Lambeth  is  a  heaven  below  in  such  a  blessed  time  as  this.  But 
still  there  is  a  whisper  going  on  in  the  paradise  all  about  me  to 
'be  off,'  telling  me  that  no  opportunity  can  be  fairer,  and  that 
no  welcome  can  be  half  so  strong.  But  to  Boulogne  without  her 
would  never  do,  the  hope  having  been  so  fondly  raised;  so  if  you 
see  one  you  see  both.  At  the  worst,  as  she  says,  it  is  something 
to  have  been  so  warmly  wished  for,  and  to  have  such  a  letter 
backing  the  verbal  wish.  For  myself  I  am  urgently  moved 
towards  Gloucester,  where  I  have  an  acquaintance  ('  which  is 
very  well  hoff ')  relying  on  an  old  promise ;  but  it  must  be  older 
yet  ere  it  be  fulfilled.  And  Hastings  also  calls  upon  me  from 
the  sea,  saying,  '  You  said  you'd  come  in  May  ; '  but  Hastings 
is  as  impotent  as  Gloucester.  Belfast,  moreover,  pleads 
winningiy,  and  still  in  vain.  This  to  let  you  know  that  I  am 
cared  for  in  other  quarters,  and  that  I  prize  your  summons 
before  all  others,  however  pleasant  and  friendly.  *  *  *  * 
I  send  you  a  little  song  written  since  I  saw  you,  and  rather 
relished  I  find.  I  have  about  half  a  volume  of  such  matters 
scattered  here  and  there. 

TRUTH   AND   HUMOUR. 

As  Truth  once  paused  on  her  pilgrim  way 

To  rest  l>y  a  hedge-side  thorny  and  sere, 
Few  travellers  there  she  charm'd  to  stay. 

Though  hers  were  the  tidings  that  all  should  hear. 
She  whispering  sung,  and  her  deep  rich  voice 

Yet  richer,  deeper,  each  moment  grew; 
And  still  though  it  bade  the  crowd  rejoice, 

Her  strain  but  a  scanty  audience  drew. 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND  MARRIAGE.  57 

But  Rumour  close  by,  as  she  pluck'J  a  reed 

From  a  babbling  brook,  detain' d  the  throng; 
With  a  hundred  tongues  that  never  agreed, 

She  gave  to  the  winds  a  mockiug  song. 
The  crowd  with  delight  its  echoes  caught, 

And  closer  around  her  yet  they  drew ; 
So  wondrous  and  wild  the  lore  she  taught, 

They  listen' d,  entranced,  the  long  day  through. 

The  sun  went  down :  when  he  rose  again, 

And  sleep  had  becalm' d  each  listener's  mind, 
The  voice  of  Rumour  had  rung  in  vain, 

No  echo  had  left  a  charm  behind. 
But  Truth's  pure  note,  ever  whispering  clear, 

Wand'ring  in  air,  fresh  sweetness  caught ; 
Then  all  unnoticed  it  touch'd  the  ear, 

And  fill'd  with  music  the  cells  of  thought. 
***** 

"  Ever  yours  affectionately, 

"Laman  Bla>tchard."* 

Again,    and    again,    was    Blanchard    bidden    across    the 

Channel  : — 

"4,  Rue  D'Alger,  Capecure, 

"Boulogne  S.  M. 

"  My  dear  Blanchard, 

"  Here  I  am,  ensconced  in  a  very  comfortable  cottage, 

with  two  spare  beds  and  a  good  garden;  so  unless  you  have 

taken  a  vow  that 

'  You  never  will  send 
Our  ancient  friend 
To  be  toss'd  on  the  rolling  sea,' — 

*  At  this  moment  Douglas  Jerrold  was  writing  Gertrude's  Cherries.  I 
find  the  following  in  Scene  II.  The  reference  is  to  the  English  habit  of 
cutting  names,  &c,  with  diamonds  upon  window-panes:  — 

"  WU.  Humph  !  one  man  goes  to  foolscap,  another  to  a  pane  of  glass : 
they  may  be  very  different  people,  but,  well  considered,  I  doubt  if  the 
motive  hasn't  the  same  source. 

"  Vin.  At  least  the  same  effect;  for,  as  my  friend  Laman  Blanchard 
sings,— 

'  Ti*  oft  the  poet's  curse 
To  mar  hi  a  little  light  with  verse.'" 


58  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

you  "will  have  no  excuse  in  keeping  Anne  from  Boulogne  when 
the  summer  really  sets  in ;  though  even  as  yet  (May  2nd) 
we  have  had  superb  weather,  i"  don't  see  why  you  can't  steal 
away  for  some  six  or  seven  days  and  accompany  wife  and 
daughter.  Consider  the  social  importance  acquired  by  a  visit  to 
the  '  Continent ! '  *  *  *  I  found  my  three  boys  all  knocked 
down  with  the  measles.  They  are,  however,  now  well,  and  take 
a  fearful  revenge  of  daily  mutton.  I  have  some  idea  of  sending 
two  of  them  to  Germany;  Prince  Albert  has  obtained  a  very 
pleasant  employment  from  that  country,  and  there's  hope  in 
goodly  precedents.  *  *  *  I  am  just  now  subsiding  down 
into  hard-working  dullness.  I  endure  this  voluntary  exile,  not 
that  I  bike  so  much  of  it,  but  because  I  think  it  will  be  most 
beneficial  to  me.  I  take  solitude  as  it  were  a  blue  pill.  I  have 
a  couple  of  subjects — I  think  with  blood  and  pulse  in  them,  not 
things  of  gladiatorial  fence — which  I  intend  to  finish  for  the 
winter.  If  they  pass, — so  ;  they  will  place  me  on  that  vantage 
ground  which  miserable  health,  ill  luck  in  some  confidences,  and 
something,  perhaps,  of  a  perversity  of  temper  (the  result  of  these 
evils)  have  hitherto  denied  me.  Mine  (I  think  so)  is  one  of  those 
minds  that  however  early  they  may  put  forth  leaves,  bear  fruit 
slowly.  It  is  with  this  conviction  that  I  almost  wish  everything 
I  had  smutched  on  paper  were  wiped  off,  so  that  I  might  begin 
afresh.  A  better  wish  would  certainly  be,  to  have  no  necessity 
to  begin  at  all.  *  *  *  To  return  to  a  much  more  important 
point — pray  come  '  o'er  the  sea'  with  the  women.  Say  about 
July — there's  two  months'  grace.  *  *  *  When  you  come,  I 
will  show  you  my  usual  study.  It  is  about  four  hunched  feet 
by  three — very  private — and  raised  about  two  hundred  feet  above 
the  ocean.  I  have  two  or  three  skylarks  in  constant  pay.  Here  I 
walk  and  plan  '  precious  mischief,'  with  the  suggestive  music  of 
the  sea  below  (for  to  me  it  is  suggestive) — the  white  sails  bike 
white  birds  in  the  distance." 

Again  the  friend  is  bidden  to  take  ship,  in  pleasant  banter 
about  the  wife's  fear  of  leaving  home  : — 

' '  That  something  will  happen  to  England  directly  your  wife 
leaves  it,  I  have  not  the  remotest  doubt ;  in  the  same  way  that 
something  happened  to  Mrs.  Graham's  balloon,  when  that  fleshy 
lady  tumbled  out  of  it.     *     *     *     As  for  the  sea  voyage,  your 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  59 

■wife  need  not  fear  that ;  we  have  every  promise  of  continued 
calms,  and  were  it  otherwise,  her  very  look  would  put  oil  upon 
the  -waves." 

The  letter  then  wanders  to  Blanchard's  poetic  promises  and 
doings  : — 

"  Make  your  half  volume  of  such  poetry  a  whole  one — of 
course,  in  these  costermonger  days,  you  will  not  get  much 
money  by  it :  but  you  will  get  something  which,  if  butchers  and 
bakers  won't  take,  is  at  least — I  mean,  at  most — a  solace  and  a 
pride,  and  a  noble  inheritance  to  the  boys  and  '  girls  we  leave 
behind  us."  We  are  the  blocks,  and  circumstances  carve  the 
statue ;  and  so,  as  we  stand  upon  our  small  pedestals  of  the 
world,  we  wonder  with  the  old  women  whose  petticoats  '  were 
cut  all  round  about,'  if  it  be  ourselves  or  no.  Otherwise,  you 
would  have  done  nothing  but  write  poetry.  It  is,  however,  a 
marvellously  different  matter,  when  Amphion  is  compelled  to 
fling  down  his  instrument  that  could  have  built  temples  by  the 
magic  of  sound — and  to  work  as  a  day  labourer.  I  can  feel  this 
in  your  case,  albeit  I  can't  twang  myself." 

My  father  was  not  alone  in  urging  Laman  Blanchard  to 
give  play  to  his  high  poetic  faculty.  A  letter,  bearing  post- 
mark April  19,  1843,  and  signed  E.  L.  Bulwer,  measures 
praise  with  advice  in  most  friendly  spirit : — 

"  My  dear  Blanchard, 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  note  and  your  charming  verses. 
The  latter  require  so  little  to  make  them  a  perfect  gem  that  I 
venture  to  criticise.  Primarily,  I  think  in  this,  as  in  some  of 
your  earlier  poems,  you  do  not  make  your  first  object  the  com- 
plete clearness  of  your  idea.  Look  at  your  note  which  I  return. 
See  the  admirable  conception  as  expressed  in  the  prose,  and 
then  consider  if  it  is  thoroughly  worked  out  and  prominent  at 
the  cL  ise  of  the  two  stanzas.  Secondly,  as  a  matter  of  detail,  take 
the  last  four  verses  of  stanza  I.  How  esquisito  is  the  second  line. 
Not  one  critic,  perhaps,  in  ten  will  seo  its  beauty,  but  a  true  poet 
would  give  his  ears  to  have  written  it.  Every  word  is  perfect : 
but  are  the  two  closing  lines  worthy  of  it  ?  For  so  small  a  poem 
is  '  rude'  a  faultless  rhyme  for  '  stood  ?'  For  a  long  poem,  yes ; 
for  a  small,  I  think,  no.    But,  putting  tho  verbal  hypercriticism 


CO  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

aside, — is  the  idea  as  plain  and  forcible  here  as  it  is  in  your  own 
mind — as  it  is  in  the  plain  prose  ?  *  *  *  I  dwell  the  more  on 
these  minutiae  because  I  am  really  anxious,  as  a  friend  to  you, 
and  as  a  lover  of  real  genius,  that  you  should  now  (in  the  piime 
of  your  life)  write  a  book.  Prose  or  verse,  no  matter  which,  but 
a  book  with  your  name  and  for  your  fame.  And  I  pray  you  to 
consider  this,  and  in  the  meanwhile  excuse  my  impertinence 
from  your  belief  in  my  regard." 

Iu  the  same  year  is  a  letter  signed  E.  L.  B.,  in  which 
the  relative  values  of  prose  and  poetry,  to  him  who  desires 
fame,  is  touched  : — 

"After  all,  I  suspect,  however,  that  Art  is  wasted  upon  prose 
fictions.  For  it  is  not  appreciated  now,  and  prose  is  a  very 
doubtful  material  for  the  artist  to  leave  behind.  Its  colours 
soon  fade,  and  its  texture  rots.  But  Art  once  written  in  verse- 
has  its  fair  chance  of  final  justice.  The  verse  written  on  the  oak 
leaf  or  the  golden  tablet  was  still  in  each  and  to  all  time — the 
oracle.  But  the  prose  of  one  generation  is  prosy  to  the  next. 
Alas  for  Bichardson  !  All  that  Scott  ever  wrote,  equals  not  in 
grandeur  of  thought  and  elaborate  finish  (in  Art,  in  short,)  the 
struggles  of  Clarissa.  And  Clarissa  is  already  a  fast- vanishing 
phantom  on  the  verge  of  the  reading  world.  What  hope  for  us 
moderns  ?  None.  But  as  Candolle  says,  '//  faut  cultirer  notre 
j'ardin ' — '  I  do  the  best  I  can  with  my  potatoes.' ': 

In  1812,  the  same  distinguished  correspondent  had  shaken 
Laman  Blanchard  by  the  hand,  as  one  who  had  given  "  proof 
and  promise  of  the  rare  Pierian  faculty."  Blanchard  had 
praised  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer's  poems.  "The  coldest  stoic,"  writes 
E.  L.  B.,  "  is  stirred  from  indifference  to  opinion  by  the 
approval  of  those  whom  he  himself  approves ;  and  I  am  sin- 
cerely proud  and  glad,  that  what  I  had  called  poetry  has 
pleased  a  poet." 

Yet  the  volume  remained  unfinished,  the  fertile  garden 
uncultivated,  and  Boulogne  remained  unvisited  by  Blanchard. 
In  another  letter  of  the  same  year,  the  Lord  of  Knebworth 
writes :  "  If  you  have  said  more  than  I  feel  I  deserve,  I  know 
well  that  the  voice  of  true  kindness  never  whispers  where  it 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  61 

finds  anything  to  commend  ;  and,  where  I  disown  the  eulogy 
it  is  only  to  feel  the  more  grateful  for  the  friendship." 

Blanchard  was  immoveable.  In  1843,  my  father  tried  to 
tempt  him  to  the  fields  of  Kent.  "I  am  down  here(Hunters- 
forstel,  near  Heme  Bay),  in  quiet  and  greenery  again,  to  the 
which  I  wish  I  could  stir  you  ;  but  all  such  endeavours  seem 
as  fruitless  as  'twould  be  to  fling  one's  glove  in  the  face  of 
Charles  at  Charing  Cross  ;  the  statue  wouldn't  move — but 
remain,  fixed  and  dignified  in  London  smoke.  I  suppose  I 
get  mure  ascetic  yet  ;  but  I  never  get  to  London  without  an 
increasing  wish  to  get  out  of  it.  I  think,  after  all,  I  shall 
die  in  a  smock-frock." 

The  following  is  a  good  example  of  the  playful  letters  that 
passed  between  the  friends.  It  is  dated  from  8,  Lower 
Craven  Place,  Kentish  Town  : — 

"  XIy  dear  Blakchaed, 

' '  You  certainly  are,  except  rnyself ,  the  unluckiest 
fellow  in  the  world !  Here  have  I  been  engaged  in  your  neigh- 
bourhood too,  these  three  weeks  for  Tuesday  next!  Tho',  by  the 
way,  I  should  not  wonder  if  I'm  doomed  to  stay  at  home,  being 
at  this  present  writing  about  seventy-five,  and  by  no  means  a 
strong  man  for  my  age.  T  have  kept  my  bed  two  days  this 
week  ;  I  now  find  my  '  getting  up,'  as  the  women  say,  by  no 
means  favourable.  Rheumatism,  with  a  flavour  of  inflamma- 
tion in  the  bowels,  does  not  improve  my  style  of  face,  which  you 
know  is  naturally  pensive,  and  will  therefore  give  me  a  very 
unchristmas-like  cast  of  visage  for  any  good  man's  plum- 
pudding.  I  am  so  shrunk  within  a  few  days  that  I  would  even, 
at  the  pressing  request  of  the  company,  ladies  included,  refuse 
to  ,<how  legs  with  the  turkey  !" 

Every  friend  urged  Blanchard  to  cultivate  his  poetic  genius. 
Mr.  Proctor  (Barry  Cornwall)  wrote  to  him  in  August,  1831 : 
"  The  sonnets  are  much  beyond  the  larger  pieces,  I  think  ; 
the  reach  of  thought  is  greater.  There  is  greater  simplicity 
and  much  better  rhythm.  Were  I  you,  I  would  cultivate  my 
talent  for  the  sonnet  (it  is  a  thing  I,   myself,  could  never 


C2  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

accomplish).  But  I  would  never  finish  with  au  Alexandrine. 
It  decidedly  injures  the  sort  of  epigrammatic  close  which 
belongs  to  the  poem  ;  i.  e.,  in  my  opinion,  which  (modestly 
speaking)  is  not  infallible.  I  hope  you  will  go  on  writing 
poetry.  Had  I  leisure  I  would  do  so.  There  are,  it  is  true, 
a  great  many  manufacturers  of  rhyme,  but  no  age  is  very 
prolific  in  poets.  They  are  as  scarce  as  comets,  almost,  what- 
ever the  prophets  of  our  time  may  say."  Mr.  R.  Browning 
admired  Blanchard,  sending  him  his  "  Belles  and  Pomegra- 
nates," with  "  here's  another  inevitable  yellow  pamphlet  ; 
and  here  are  the  best  regards  of  yours  faithfully, — R.  Brown- 
ing." Thomas  Hood  writes  from  Elm  Tree  Road,  St.  John's 
Wood,  on  quitting  the  New  Monthly  : — "  I  have  only  just 
received  by  the  post  your  kind  note  of  the  25th  September, 
which  has  afforded  me  very  great  pleasure.  Proud  of  my 
profession,  and  loving  it  '  with  all  its  faults,'  I  delight  in  the 
friendship  of  my  literary  brethren  ;  and  especially  enjoy 
their  writing,  their  conversation,  and  society.  Hence  my 
chief  regret  in  leaving  the  New  Monthly  has  been  at  losing 
the  company  of  those  who,  like  yourself,  have  been  so  long 
associated  with  me  in  its  pages."  Further  on,  Hood  says  : 
"  I  have  received  several  other  testimonials  of  good  will  from 
the  Bruderschaft,  highly  gratifying  to  my  feelings ;  and 
proving  that  we  poor  authors  are  much  better  fellows  amongst 
ourselves  than  the  ignorant  have  supposed."  Mr.  Dickens' 
hearty  notes  bear  witness  to  Blanchard's  great  friendly  quali- 
ties. Blanchard  had  given  his  opinion  on  the  "  Christmas 
Carol."  Mr.  Dickens  writes  (Jan.  4,  1844):  "But  I  must 
thank  you,  because  you  have  filled  my  heart  up  to  the  brim, 
and  it  is  running  over.  You  meant  to  give  me  great  plea- 
sure, my  dear  fellow,  and  you  have  done  it.  The  tone  of 
your  elegant  and  fervent  praise  has  touched  me  in  the  ten- 
derest  place.  I  cannot  write  about  it ;  and  as  to  talking  of 
it,  I  could  no  more  do  that  than  a  dumb  man.  I  have  de- 
rived inexpressible   gratification  from  what  I  know  and  feel 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AXD  MARRIAGE.  C,3 

was  a  labour  of  love  on  your  part,  and  I  can  never  forget  it. 
When  I  think  it  likely  that  I  may  meet  you  (perhaps,  at 
A  ins  worth's,  on  Friday?)  I  shall  slip  a  Carol  into  my  pocket, 
and  ask  you  to  put  it  among  your  books  for  my  sake.  You 
will  never  like  it  the  less  for  having  made  it  the  means  of  so 
much  happiness  to  me." 

It  was  not  alone  with  my  father,  as  the  reader  perceives, 
that  Laman  Blanchard  sweetened  the  even  current  of  his  life 
with  the  pleasures  of  most  affectionate  friendship.  The  cor- 
respondence between  Laman  Blanchard,  Leigh  Hunt,  Mr. 
Dickens,  Mr.  Ainsworth,  and  others,  which  lies  before  me,  is 
of  the  most  cordial — even  affectionate  character.  It  warms 
as  the  years  pass  over  the  heads  of  the  two  friends.  Acknow- 
ledgment of  mutual  services  ;  invitations  to  tea,  "  and  hear 
the  play  read ;"  excuses  for  non-attendance  at  the  Mul- 
berries, but  protestations  of  sympathy  with  the  "  delight- 
hood  ;"  and  then  earnest  words  of  sympathy  fill  the  little 
pages,  in  Hunt's  charming  hand-writing.  When  Leigh  Hunt 
moved  from  Chelsea  to  Kensington,  he  wrote  :  "  Further- 
more, I  want  you  to  come  up  here  (32,  Edwarde's  Square), 
and  give  me  a  look  in.  It  will  do  your  kindly  eyes  good  to 
see  the  nice  study  into  which  I  have  escaped,  out  of  all  those 
squalidities  at  Chelsea.  Tea  at  all  hours."  Again  :  "  And 
now  I  am  not  certain  whether  I  am  not  going  to  be  ungrate- 
ful ;  for  I  want  you  to  come  to  me  and  have  some  verses  of 
mine  read  to  you  !  Frightful  threat  of  authorship  !  How- 
ever, you  liked  my  four  acts  of  the  play  so  well,  that  I  have 
taken  it  into  my  head  you  would  not  be  sorry  to  hear  my 
fifth.  Some  friends  are  coming  to  tea  here  to-morrow,  at 
seven,  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  the  play  read  through. 
Now  could  you  not  contrive  (as  I  find  your  medical  orders 
are  relaxed  with  regard  to  visiting,)  to  tear  an  hour  or  two 
for  one  friend's  sake  out  of  the  hands  of  all  your  other 
friends,  with  whom  you  are  not  more  in  request  at  heart 
than  you  are  with  me,  and  come  and  give  the  said  fifth  act 


C4  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS    JERROLD. 

the  comfort  and  support  of  your  countenance  1     I  have  not 
the  face  to  ask  you  to  hear  rue  read  the  whole,  and  shall 
secretly  congratulate  you  if  you  are  so  far  engaged  as  to  be 
unable  even  to  think  of  it;  but  for  the  fifth  I  will  not  scruple 
to  beg  hard,  your  company  would  be  such  a  help  to  me. 
Mr.  Home  will  be  there  ;  Dr.  Southwood  Smith,  and  some 
other  friends  of  his,  etc.,  etc,  and  you  will  be  most  welcome 
to  all  of  us."     Leigh  Hunt  was  an  ungrudging  admirer.     He 
writes  from  Chelsea— from  "the  squalidities  :"  "  May  I  have  a 
copy  of  the  admirable  verses  upon  the  Statues  ?  and  would  it 
be  too  much  to  ask  you  to  let  the  printer  recompose  them, 
and  give  me  two  or  three  slips.     The  versification,  the  wit, 
the  animal  spirits,  are  all  perfectly  round  and  harmonious, 
and  have  duration  in  them.     They  will  be  found   in  other 
days  by  the  side  of  Andrew  Marvell's  looser  but  still  excel- 
lent,  because   intentionally  looser  numbers,   on  a  like  sub- 
ject."    Another  invitation  to  a  reading,  with  "  Carlyle  will 
be  here,"  slyly  put  in  the  corner.     Hunt  is  as  profuse  in 
thanks  as  in  praise.     "  Mr.   Home  has  been  good-natured 
enough  to  send  me  the  kind  notice  you  have  taken  of  me  in 
the   Courier.      Many   hearty  thanks   for    it.       It  was  '  like 
Blanchard  ;'  and  I  need  say  no  more."     In  other  notes  he 
sends  "love  to   dear  Talfourd,  and  other  friends."     He  is 
always  yearning  for  the  club,  but  cannot  go.     "  If  I  can  ven- 
ture on  the  Mulberries,  I  will.    Nothing  but  bad  health  shall 
hinder  me.     And  I  suppose,  if  I  could  not  come  to  dinner,  I 
could  come  afterwards."     In  some  letters  there  is  the  ten- 
derness of  a  woman  :  "  And  yet  I  see  you  far  oftener  in  the 
spirit  than  I  could  wish,   compared  with   greetings  of  the 
other  sort.     I  always  say,  however,  that  Blanchard  and  I  are 
two  of  the  most  intimate  friends  in  the  world,  though  we 
seldom  meet  ;  one  of  the  friends  happening  to  live  out  of 
town  [Kensington,  and  Blanchard  lived  in  Lambeth  !],  and 
the  limbs  of  the  other's  free-will  being  everlastingly  torn  to 
pieces   by  loving   friends   who   live   nearer.      Thanks  upon 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  65 

thanks,  my  dear  Blanchard,  fur  your  most  kind,  and  careful, 
and  graceful  notice,  which  affects  me  somehow  with  a  par- 
ticular charm  of  lucid  colour,  and  sounds  as  clear  and  sweet 
throughout  as  the  glass  you  speak  of.  Thornton,  among  his 
other  good  deeds,  has  given  me  a  hope  of  meeting  you  to 
dinner  at  his  house  in  a  week  or  two.  Affectionately  yours 
— Leigh  Hunt."  On  another  occasion  he  asks  why  Jerrold 
should  have  stood  upon  any  ceremony  with  him.  "Beg  him  not 
to  do  so  another  time,  as  I  am  very  truly  his  and  yours  ever." 
When  the  great  sorrow  of  Laman  Blanchard's  life  hap- 
pened, Leigh  Hunt  waited  awhile  ;  then  wrote  :  "  My  dear 
Bianchard,  not  having  the  pleasure  of  being  so  frequently 
with  you  as  most  of  your  friends,  and  knowing  too  well  that 
there  are  griefs  which  cannot  bear  to  hear  immediately  the 
voices  of  even  those  with  whom  we  are  most  conversant,  I 
did  not  think  it  right  to  say  a  word  to  you  during  the  first 
burst  of  a  sorrow  like  yours ;  and  I  hope  I  am,  now,  not  pre- 
mature in  doing  so ;  but  having  occasion  to  write  of  his  loss 
to  poor  Forster,  and  thinking  you  might,  by  possibility,  hear 
as  much,  I  was  anxious  that  you  should  know  what  had 
hitherto  kept  me  silent.  Scarcely  a  day  has  passed,  in  the 
course  of  which  I  have  not  frequently  thought  of  you.  I  do 
not  pretend  that  this,  or  twenty  such  assurances  from  others, 
can  give  you  any  real  consolation  at  present ;  yet  your  heart 
is  too  larsre  not  to  admit  a  thought  of  them,  for  the  sake  of 
those  others;  and  I  have  found,  during  the  greatest  afflictions, 
that  if  one  does  but  encourage  the  faintest  approach  of  a  com- 
fort, nature  seems  pleased  with  us  for  taking  her  perplexing 
dispensations  kindly,  and  assuredly  makes  it  grow  larger.  But 
pardon  reflexions  which  must,  of  course,  with  a  hundred 
others,  go  through  your  fine  mind  ;  and  above  all  do  not  think 
of  writiug  any  answer  to  them.  It  is  enough  to  feel  such  griefs 
without  scoring  one's  heart  with  them  on  paper.  Only  try 
to  keep  the  corners  of  your  heart  open  for  your  old  friends, 
and  among  them  a  little  bit  of  one  for  your  perhaps  officious 

B 


C6  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

but  certainly  well-meaning  and  affectionate — Leigh  Hunt." 
And  so  the  correspondence  worthily  closes. 

In  1835,  Blanchard  was  one  of  Mr.  Macready's  warmest 
admirers  and  most  eulogistic  critics.  The  gratitude  of  the 
tragedian  was  ungrudging.  He  writes,  Oct.  11,  1835,  a  long 
letter  on  his  rough  usage  by  the  press,  concluding,  "  I  have 
too  long  and  too  hopelessly  struggled  against  the  resolute 
prejudice  of  the  more  potent  many,  to  hope  that  the  strength 
of  my  love  for  nature  and  Shakspeare  can  overcome  its  spell  ; 
but  it  is  a  consolation  even  to  a  defeated  cause,  to  win  only  a 
few  such  defenders  as  yourself  to  its  side." 

We  return  to  the  year  1823,  and  to  the  time  when,  un- 
known to  the  world,  but  eager  to  be  noticed  in  the  lists,  the 
two  friends  trudged  about  London  every  evening,  concocting 
plans,  to  be  set  aside  with  each  morrow's  sunrise.  Yet  work 
was  done,  and  that  lustily,  by  "  dear  Doug."  The  early 
summer  found  audiences  laughing  at  Sadler's  Wells  over  the 
Smoked  Miser,  or  applauding  the  hits  that,  even  then,  the 
young  author  had  learned  to  deal  at  hard  masters  and  the 
ravenous  lawyers.  Screw  calls  to  bis  clerk,  "  Here  !  Goliah 
Spiderlimb  !  Goliah  !  Where's  the  lazy  rascal  that  I  keep  1 
Why,  you  scoundrel,  don't  I  keep  you?"  To  which  Spider- 
limb  replies,  "  I  can't  persuade  my  stomach  that  you  do, 
sir."  And  then  Spiderlimb,  malicious  with  his  hunger, 
showing  his  master's  friend  out,  says,  "Don't  be  afraid;  you'll 
not  run  against  the  pantry."  Spiderlimb  is  even  a  facetious 
starveling,  and  describes  himself  as  "the  outline  of  a  bone." 

The  managers  of  the  minor  theatres  were  beginning  to 
turn  their  eyes  towards  the  impulsive  dramatic  author  who 
was  bravely  at  his  war  with  the  world,  and  yet  who  held 
aloof  from  the  pleasures  of  his  age  that  were  within  his  reach. 

For  although  able  to  do  something  more  than  support 
himself  now,  with  his  work  on  the  Monitor  in  the  double 
capacity  of  compositor  and  writer,  his  occasional  pittances 
for  pieces,  and  his  contributions  to  the  Mirror  of  the  Stage, 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  G? 

he  remained  at  home  with  his  family.  His  father  was  dead. 
The  poor  old  man  had  passed  away  either  the  day  before  01 
the  day  after  the  death  of  George  III.,  leaving  his  family, 
happily,  in  comfortable  circumstances.  Once,  in  his  sixteenth 
year,  Douglas  left  his  home,  with  the  idea  that  the  freedom 
of  an  isolated  life  would  give  him  a  happy  sense  of  inde- 
pendence ;  but  he  soon  returned  to  his  mother  and  sisters, 
and  never  left  them  again  till  he  had  furnished  a  nest  of 
his  own,  and  taken  unto  himself  a  wife  —  the  beloved  of 
his  boyhood.  With  his  sternly  studious  habits  at  this  time 
of  his  life,  the  qniet  of  a  home  was  welcome.  There  were 
temptations  to  shut  the  book,  and  enjoy  the  charms  of  inter- 
changing rapid  thoughts  with  others,  abroad.  Here,  in  his 
own  little  room,  with  his  Shakspeare,  his  Latin  books,  and 
his  French  grammars,  he  could,  without  chance  of  disturb- 
ance, buckle  to  his  appointed  triumph  over  the  adverse  fate 
that  had  clouded  his  early  boyhood.  He  could  snatch 
greedily  the  lessons  that  are  thrust  upon  boys  born  to  hap- 
pier chances.  Winter  sunrise  still  found  the  young  student, 
with  benumbed  fingers,  lighting  his  own  fire  and  trimming 
his  own  lamp.  "  No  man,"  said  he,  long  afterwards,  "  lias 
ever  achieved  greatness,  who  did  not  rise  at  six  during  some 
years  of  his  life."  Plays  were  written — trifles  as  he  rightly 
estimated  them  afterwards — in  the  long  evenings  of  the  days 
of  hard  work.  He  saw  them  successful  and  himself  unre- 
garded, and  paid  not  so  much  as  the  theatre's  master  car- 
penter. Still  the  world,  harsh  and  cold  as  it  was  to  him  who 
had  no  patron,  and  would,  in  the  worst  passage  of  his  war 
have  scorned  the  patron  who  had  dangled  the  patron's  living 
before  him — the  world  should  not  master  and  subdue  him. 
He  had  not  many  friends  in  London  even  now  ;  yet  the  few 
he  had  were  destined  to  be  with  him  almost  to  the  end  of  his 
chapter. 

It  was  on  a  certain  day  while  the  snow  was  on  the  ground, 
in  the  youth  of  the  year   li>2l,   that  he  was  standing  with 

r  2 


68  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Laman  Blanchard  in  Mr.  Duncombe's  shop,  chatting.  An 
artist  employed  by  the  publisher,  stepped  in  with  a  portrait 
of  Charles  Young,  in  King  John,  under  his  arm,  for  The 
Stage.  The  publisher  introduced  Mr.  Kenny  Meadows  to  the 
two  friends.  This  was  the  merest  accident,  of  course  ;  yet 
how  full  of  coming  happy  hours  for  the  three  !  Kapidly,  as 
is  always  the  case  among  men  touched  by  a  common  fire, 
the  friendship  grew.  Was  it  ever  ripe,  or  was  it  always 
ripening  ?  Certainly  it  never  passed  its  pei'fect  ripeness  to 
show  its  decay.  Cornelius  Webbe,  afterwards  known  as  a 
graceful,  lively  magazine  writer ;  Mr.  Buckstone,  the  now- 
well-known  low  comedian ;  Mr.  Ogden,  a  man  utterly  un- 
known to  fame,  yet,  in  a  circle  able  to  appreciate  him, 
esteemed  as  a  devout  Shakspeariau  and  a  sound  original 
thinker,  drew  about  the  trio,  with  Elton,  the  actor,  to  enjoy 
many  years  of  graceful  friendship.  They  were  separated 
often  in  the  hurry  of  the  world.  "  We  touch  and  go,  and 
sip  the  foam  of  many  lives  ;  "  *  but  there  was  a  potent  link 
here  among  these  early  friends  that,  even  after  long  wander- 
ings, drew  them  by  a  strong  gravitation  towards  each  other. 
The  autumn  brought  change,  however,  to  the  frieud  Douglas 
Jerrold.  Daring  in  all  things,  confident  in  his  own  white-hot 
energy,  he  tempted  fortune  yet  again,  and  consummated  the 
love  of  his  boyhood  in  marriage. 

Laman  Blanchard,  already  married,  turned  to  his  friend, 
and  offered  him  the  tattered  paper  that  lies  before  me,  with 
the  following  lines,  now  pale  with  age,  upon  it  ;-*- 

"  And  thou  art  wed  !     God  knows  how  well 
I  wish  ihee — what  I  may  not  tell, 
Though  all  may  wish,  and  waft  thee,  top, 
As  much,  dear  rhyme,  as  thou  canst  do. 
But  trust  me,  none  a  purer  blessing 
Shall  breathe  upon  the  mystic  hour, 
'When,  pledged  in  fond  and  full  caressing, 
You  drain  the  cup  for  sweet  or  sour. 

*  Emerson. 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIPS  AND  MARRIAGE.  69 

Sweet,  sweet  the  dregless  draught  must  prove — 

The  wine  of  life  distill' d  from  lovej 

A  shower  of  summer  dews  for  thee 

In  passion — pearls  from  heaven's  sea  ; 

God's  own  delicious  vital  rain, 

Like  one  small  fount  o'er  many  a  plain ; 

The  finger's  cooling  touch,  which  erst 

The  rich  man  ask'd  for  his  tongue  of  thirst ; 

Bright  drops  like  those  o'er  Rhodian  forms, 

When  brain-born  Pallas  rose,  descending 

Like  molten  stars  in  golden  storms, 

Young  hearts  and  their  idols  immortally  blending. 

*'  Thy  name  shall  crown  the  register 
Of  those  that  bless  and  blindly  err  ; 
That  follow  a  promiscuous  gleam, 
The  poet-brain's  romantic  dream, 
And  grasp  yet  miss  the  glittering  bubble, 
While  hope  endears  the  specious  trouble  ; 
Who  brave  the  winds  when  others  droop, 
And  f&H  at  once,  but  cannot  stoop ; 
Who  own  no  years,  all  worn  and  wounded, 
But  crack  like  glass,  and  so  are  dead. 
And  better  thus  than,  bronzed  in  brow, 
To  stand  amidst  this  pictured  show, 
And  watch  the  flight,  or  plume  the  feather, 
Of  some  young  nursling  of  warm  weather. 
Clipp'd  be  thy  wing  1  thine  eye,  and  will, 
And  progress,  are  an  eagle's  still. 
For  whether  with  song  thou  tend'st  thy  flock, 
Or  sling' st  smooth  pebbles  at  the  giant, 
Though  deeply  thou  endur'st  the  shock, 
Nor  words  nor  wounds  shall  find  thee  pliant, 
Alas  !  in  youth,  that  best  of  time, 
What  do  we  see  but  pain  and  crime  ? 
Whether  the  early  storm  is  riotous, 
Or  drifting  breezes  merely  sigh  at  us, 
Or  if  we  stand  (impatient  trial  !) 
To  watch  the  sun  along  life's  dial, 
What  do  we  see,  or  you  or  I, 
But  tears  and  mean  hypocrisy  ? 

"  Now  6hame  upon  that  weeping  line  ! 
Is  this  a  time  to  vent  my  whine, 


70  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

When  my  light  pen  should  skim  the  paper, 
Unwilder'd  by  such  fretful  vapour  ? 
I  meant  my  feathery  words  should  play 
Like  birds  around  your  smiling  way  ; 
And  still  they  sing,  sincere  and  loud, 
Although  their  hues  are  steep'd  in  cloud  ; 
While,  like  Columbus,  you  explore 
The  fissures  of  your  new-found  shore. 
May  it,  my  friend,  be  hallowed  ground, 
Where  all  shall  flourish,  nought  decay — 
Where  life  may  be  but  beam  and  sound, 
Till  it  shall  pass  away  ; 
An  isle  that  lifts  its  rainbow  breast 
From  out  its  bed  of  crystal  sea, 
Whereon,  as  soon  as  foot  can  rest, 
Thou  clasp' st  an  Immalee. 
Methinks  thy  timid,  trusting  Mary 
Would  well  beseem  this  laud  of  fairy. 
Such  time  would  soon  restore  the  tint, 
Half  lost  in  sorrow's  withering  print, 
Which  strew'd  the  cbeek  with  pensive  shade 
Where  sunshine  should  have  always  stay'd. 
And  thou,  although  thou  dream'st  it  not, 
Art  fitted  for  such  wariess  lot ; 
O'er  all  that  such  a  realm  can  bring 
To  rule,  the  young  congenial  king  ; 
O'er  subject  fruits,  and  spice-fi aught  pinion^ 
And  flowers  that  blush  from  Venus'  vein, 
And  songs  that  float  from  love-dominions, 
And  sighs  that  never  sprung  from  pain. 


"  Now  falls  in  love  my  foolish  thought, 
Pygmalion-like,  with  that  it  wrought. 
Perchance  my  fancy's  fond  expansion 
Hath  shaped  its  own  heart-visioned  mansion  ; 
And,  though  I  wish  but  sound  anil  sorrow, 
I  would  I  might  be  wed  to-morrow, 
Since  the  mad  fates  have  added  yours 
'  To  matrimony's  list  of  cures  ' — 
The  records  of  the  true  belief. 
Where  men  '  turn  over  a  new  leaf,' 
A  book  of  bliss  without  &  finis, 
For  such,  mysterious  wedlock,  thine  is. 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND  MARRIAGE.  71 

Ami  who,  in  sooth,  would  still  be  waiting 
,         At  libiaries  call'd  'circulating,' 

To  tumble  o'er  the  well-thumbed  pages, 

When  some  M.S.*  like  thine  engages 

The  souls  of  bards,  the  thoughts  of  sages, 
«         The  truth  of  life,  the  dream  of  ages  ? 

And  yet,  had  all  seen  nature's  college, 

And  shuun'd,  like  thee,  this  stall  of  knowledge 

Many  smart  volumes  ('twist  ourselves) 

Would  moulder  on  the  public  shelves, 

Or  lie,  as  ne'er  such  books  of  old  did, 

Iu  sheets,  uncover'd  and  unfolded. 

"  A  bard,  for  whom  the  thinking  eye 
Fills  with  the  heart's  philosophy, 
With  whom  high  fancies,  feelings  mingle, 
Says,  'Nothing  in  the  world  is  single.' 
And  be  is  right ;  even  mine  is  not, 

Dear  J ,  a  solitary  lot. 

But  this,  perchance,  I  owe  to  thee, 
Confirmer  of  my  early  vision " 

The  lines  here  break  off.  Their  playful  tenderness  sug- 
gests at  once  the  writer  of  the  letter  addressed  years  after- 
wards to  Boulogne.  I  found  the  yellow  paper  upon  which 
they  are  written  in  a  secret  drawer,  in  my  father's  library. 
He  had  always  treasured  this  relic,  not  so  much,  it  may  he 
perceived,  for  its  literary  value,  as  for  the  noble  heart  he 
could  always  see  at  work  behind  it.  The  playful  allusion 
to  M.  S.  (the  initials  of  Mrs.  Douglas  Jerrold's  maiden  and 
Christian  name)  is  very  happy.  Miss  Mary  Swann  was  the 
daughter  of  Thomas  Swann,  Esq.,  of  Wetherby,  Yorkshire, 
a  gentleman  who  held  an  appointment  in  the  Post  Office. 

Happy  in  friendship  as  in  love,  there  were  yet  influences 
at  work  to  sour  the  heart  of  a  man  of  my  father's  ardent 
temperament.  His  glance  was  so  keen,  his  sympathies  were 
so  warm,  that  when  he  looked  abroad  upon  the  buttle  of  life, 

*  "  You  will,  perhaps,  be  able,  from  these  initials,  to  illustrate  the  text 
UTtb  a  name  [Mary  Swann]  which  you  will  readily  pardon  me  for  omitting.'' 


72  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

and  marked  its  wide  diversities  of  fortune,  its  hypocrisies, 
and  vanities — its  prizes  in  the  hands  of  the  low  foreheads, 
and  its  crown  of  thorns  about  the  high  foreheads — when,  in 
his  own  case,  he  saw  how  poor  was  the  reward  of  money  or 
of  honour  vouchsafed  to  the  original  thinker — he  turned 
into  his  little  home  in  Holborn,  where  he  and  his  bride  lived 
with  his  mother,  sister,  and  good  old  Mrs.  Reid — with  a 
scornful  word  upon  his  lip.  I  insist  upon  this  early  feeling, 
and  I  endeavour  to  explain  it,  because  it  is  the  basis  of  my 
father's  mind.  I  have  by  me,  an  early  fragment  of  his,  on 
"  The  Residence  of  the  Soul,"  in  which  this  sharp  conflict  of 
feeling  is  painfully  apparent.     I  have  elected  not  to  print  it. 

To  strike  at  the  high  oppressing  the  low — at  the  golden 
calf  with  its  cloven  hoof  upon  "  the  learifed  pate  " — at  laws 
tempered  for  the  rich  and  sharpened  for  the  lowly — at  the 
wretched  social  shams  comprehended  in  gig-keeping — this 
was  his  mission.  To  this  end  should  be  devoted  all  the  fancy 
— all  the  trenchant  wit — all  the  play  of  humour — all  the 
tender  poetry  within  him.  In  drama — in  theatrical  notices 
— in  introductions  to  burlettas — in  farce  and  comedy — in 
fairy  realms,  over  the  beer  of  the  "  Gratis,"  or  in  the  "  Story 
of  a  Feather  " — in  the  vulgar  Goldthumb,  or  in  that  learned 
sham,  Professor  Truffles — or,  again,  in  Retired  from  Business, 
where  "  pig  iron  "  is  shown  scornfully  turning  up  its  nose 
at  "  tenpenny  nails  " — he  would  speak  for  the  misrepresented. 
Noi",  as  the  author  in  later  day  acknowledged,  much  as  he 
hated  the  ignorance  that  had  called  him  a  bitter  man,  was 
he  in  the  habit  of  attacking  his  enemies  with  sugar. 

"  In  New  Street,  Covent  Garden,"  he  wrote,  prefacing 
Bubbles  of  the  Day,  "  there  is,  or  was,  a  tradesman  of  great 
practical  benevolence.  It  was  the  happiness  of  his  tempera- 
ment to  recommend  to  the  palates  of  babes  and  sucklings  the 
homeliest,  nay,  the  foulest  shapes,  by  the  lusciousness  of 
their  material.  The  man  made  semblance  of  all  things  in 
swjar.     Fieschi's  head,  bruised  and  bleeding  from  "  his  own 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND  MARRIAGE.  73 

petard,"  frowned  like  a  demon  from  the  shop-window  :  still 
the  demon  was — in  sugar.  The  abomination,  though  appal- 
ling to  the  eye,  would  yet  melt  sweetly  in  the  mouth.  The 
thing  was  called  a  murderer ;  yet  taste  it,  and  'twas  pure 
saccharine. 

"  The  author  of  Babbles  of  the  Day  confesses  to  the  charge 
that  in  some  places  has  been  preferred  against  nearly  every 
character  in  his  comedy.  He  has  taken  for  his  theme  the 
absurdities  and  meannesses  of  fools  and  knaves  ;  and  he  has 
not — at  least,  he  trusts  he  has  not — exhibited  the  offenders 
— in  sugar." 

This  defiance  of  the  critics  was  made  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  knowledge  that  the  world  had  all  along  been  taught  by 
shallow  men  to  regard  him  as  a  cynic — he,  who  had  to  the 
last,  a  heart,  below  the  rugged  surface  of  him,  as  tender  as  a 
woman's.  Mr.  Hannay,  in  an  eloquent  article  that  appeared 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  November,  1857,  touches  upon 
this  popular  mistake,  and  corrects  it.     He  writes  : — 

"  Inveterately  satirical  as  Jerrold  is,  he  is  even  '  spoonily ' 
tender  at  the  same  time,  and  it  lay  deep  in  his  character ;  for  this 
wit  and  bon  vivant,  the  merriest  and  wittiest  man  of  the  com- 
pany, would  cry  like  a  child  as  the  night  drew  on  and  the  talk 
grew  serious.  No  theory  could  bo  more  false  than  that  he  was 
a  cold-blooded  satirist — sharp  as  steel  is  sharp  from  being  hard. 
The  basis  of  his  nature  was  sensitiveness  and  impulsiveness. 
His  wit  is  not  of  the  head  only,  but  of  the  heart — often  senti- 
mental, and  constantly  fanciful;  that  is,  dependent  on  a  quality 
which  imperatively  requires  a  sympathetic  nature  to  give  it  full 
play.  Take  those  Punch  papers  which  soon  helped  to  make 
Punch  famous,  and  Jerrold  himself  better  known.  Take  the 
'  Story  of  a  Feather '  as  a  good  expression  of  his  more  earnest 
and  tender  mood.  How  delicately  all  the  part  about  the  poor 
actress  is  worked  up !  How  moral,  how  stoical  the  feeling  that 
pervades  it !  Tho  bitterness  is  healthy — healthy  as  bark.  "\Yo 
cannot  always  bo 

'  Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet,' 


74  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

in  the  presence  of  such  phenomena  as  are  to  be  seen  in  London 
alongside  of  our  civilization.  If  any  feeling  of  Jen-old's  was 
intense,  it  was  his  feeling  of  sympathy  with  the  poor.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  the  energy  and  tenderness  "with  which  he  would 
quote  these  lines  of  his  favourite  Hood  : 

'  Poor  Peggy  sells  flowers  from  street  to  street, 
And — think  of  that,  .ye  who  find  life  sweet  ! — 
She  hates  the  smell  of  roses.' 

He  was,  therefore,  to  be  pardoned  when  he  looked  with  extreme 
suspicion  and  severity  on  the  failings  of  the  rich.  They,  at  least, 
he  knew  were  free  from  those  terrible  temptations  which  beset 
the  unfortunate.  They  could  protect  themselves.  They  needed 
to  be  reminded  of  their  duties.  Such  was  his  view,  though  I 
don't  think  he  ever  carried  it  so  far  as  he  was  accused  of  doing. 
Nay,  I  think  he  sometimes  had  to  prick  up  his  zeal  before  assum- 
ing the  flagellum.  *For  a  successful,  brilliant  man  like  himself, 
full  of  humour  and  wit,  evidently  convivial  and  sensitive  to 
pleasure,  the  temptation  rather  was  to  adopt  the  easy  philosophy 
that  everything  was  all  right,  that  the  rich  were  wise  to  enjoy 
themselves  with  as  little  trouble  as  possible,  and  that  the  poor 
(good  fellows,  no  doubt)  must  help  themselves  on  according  as  they 
got  a  chance.  It  was  to  Douglas's  credit  that  he  always  felt  the 
want  of  a  deeper  and  holier  theory,  and  that,  with  all  his  gaiety, 
he  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  use  his  pen  as  an  implement  of 
what  he  thought  reform.  Indeed,  it  was  a  well-known  charac- 
teristic of  his  that  he  disliked  being  talked  of  as  'a  wit.'  He 
thought  (with  justice)  that  he  had  something  better  in  him  than 
most  wits,  and  he  sacredly  cherished  high  aspirations.  To  him 
buffoonery  was  pollution.  He  attached  to  salt  something  of  the 
sacredness  which  it  bears  in  the  East.  He  was  fuller  of  repartee 
than  any  man  in  England,  and  yet  was  about  the  last  man  that 
would  have  condescended  to  be  what  is  called  a  '  diner-out.' 
It  is  a  fact  which  illustrates  his  mind,  his  character,  and 
biography." 

This  is  just  criticism,  the  fruit  of  personal  knowledge  ; 
but  the  mistake  that  the  world  made,  and  that  many  of  his 
friends  made,  arose  naturally.  It  was  difficult  to  understand 
the  volcanic  throes  of  that  impulsive  natm-e — a  nature  that 
could  feel  nothing  coldly,  circumspectly.     My  father  might 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND  MARRIAGE.  75 

have  pushed  more  rapidly  forward  to  comfort  in  his  early 
days  had  he  possessed  a  more  pliant  nature ;  but  his  road 
was  straight  ahead.  You  might  cast  barricades  in  his  way, 
and  slyly  invite  him  to  walk  round  the  obstruction,  and  so, 
but  only  for  a  moment,  turn  from  his  appointed  path  ;  but 
no,  you  could  not  make  him  step  one  pace  aside.  There 
were  barricades  before  him,  bristling  far  above  his  head. 
Still  he  kept  his  eye  firmly  upon  them — cast  back  the 
tumbled  masses  of  his  hair  ;  dashed  forward — and  presently 
the  little  figure,  with  dilated  eye  and  distended  nostril,  and 
scorn  trembling  in  the  downcast  cornel's  of  the  mouth, 
was  on  the  barricades'  topmost  point.  Timid  friends  looked 
on  at  the  struggle,  and  offered  tender  counsel.  "  God 
send  you  more  successful  days,"  wrote  tender  Laman 
Blanchard  to  him  in  1842  ;  "for,  apart  from  other  conside- 
rations, there  is  something  in  success  that  is  necessary  to 
the  softening  and  sweetening  of  the  best-disposed  natures  ; 
and  nothing  but  that,  I  do  believe,  will  so  quickly  convince 
you  of  the  needless  asperity  of  many  of  your  opinions, 
and  of  the  pain  done  to  the  world  when  you  tell  it  you 
despise  it." 

But  he  was  not  to  be  turned  aside.  Even  his  earliest  and 
dearest  friend  could  not  understand  him — could  not  see  that 
his  fierce  utterances  came  from  the  depth  of  his  most  passion- 
ate sympathy.  Success  came,  but  it  in  no  way  dulled  the 
fire  of  his  ardour.  The  "  high  "  and  rich  sought  his  society  ; 
but  still  a  story  of  wrong  done,  of  authority  tyrannically 
used,  smote  upon  his  soul,  as  now  they  smite,  where  he 
stands,  his  bride  by  his  side,  a  desperate  warrior,  resolved  to 
make  his  whole  life  a  protest  against  the  wrongs  done  by 
man  to  man. 

He  shall  never  be  understood,  save  by  a  few  very  near 
friends,  while  he  lives.  As  he  himself  wrote,  when  dedi- 
cating his  "Cakes  and  Ale"  to  Thomas  Hood,  it  shall  be 
"  necessary  "  for  him  "  still   to   do  one  thing  ere  the  wide 


70  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

circle  and  the  profound  depth  of  his  genius  shall  be   to  the 
full  acknowledged  :  that  one  thing  is,  to  die." 

Yet  out  come  the  tender  touches  of  his  nature,  even  in 
these  early  days  of  savage  fighting  with  the  world.  Here  are 
some  fragments  from  the  Belle  Assemblee  of  1824  : — 

THE  TEAR  OF  FOND  AFFECTION. 

The  kiss-inviting  lip  that  wooes 

The  thrilling  soft  impression  ; 
The  glowing  blush  that  would  refuse, 

But  sweetly  speaks  confession  ; 
Ah  !  still  more  dear,  more  sweet  than  this 

(And  what  alone' s  perfection), 
The  damask  cheek,  or  stolen  kiss — 

The  tear  of  fond  affection. 

It  glisten'd  in  her  bright  blue  eye — 

Pure  gem  of  magic  worth — 
Engender'd  by  young  Pity's  sigh, 

And  Truth,  too,  gave  it  birth  ; 
And  as  it  trembled  in  its  cell, 

I  gazed,  of  voice  bereft, 
Then  snatch'd  the  jewel  ere  it  fell, 

And  bless'd  her  for  the  theft. 

D.  W.  J.,  May,  1824. 


LOVE'S  BONDAGE. 

I  dreamt  that  young  Cupid  to  Flora's  path  stray'd, 

And  cull'd  every  beauty  that  deck'd  her  domain  ; 
But  no  flower  by  lightning  or  canker  betray' d, 

Or  heartsease  decaying,  he  wore  in  the  chain. 
The  garland  completed,  around  us  he  flew — 

The  cable  of  joy  caught  our  hearts  in  the  toil. 
lie  shed  o'er  the  blossoms  refreshing  bright  clew — 

Their  tendrils  entwining  struck  into  the  soil. 

Methought  I  saw  Time — on  his  lips  sat  a  smile, 
And  joy  lit  his  face  as  he  sharpen'd  his  blade ; 

But  Cupid,  still  watchful,  suspecting  the  wile, 
His  cruel  intention  for  ever  delay'd. 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIPS  AND   MARRIAGE.  77 

The  god  in  a  rape  seized  the  impious  steel, 

And  breathed  o'er  its  surface  a  clothing  of  rust, 

Crying,  "Ne'er  shall  this  garland  your  keenness  reveal, 
But  ever  unite  till  ye  touch  them  to  dust." 

D.  W.  J.,  May,  1824. 

I  print  these  verses  as  evidence  of  that  softer  and  more 
tender  spirit  which,  I  insist,  was  the  motive  power  of  even 
the  fiercest  invective  and  sarcasm  to  which  the  name  of 
Douglas  Jerrold  is  attached. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    DOMESTIC    DRAMA. 

The  year  1825  found  Mr.  Wilkinson's  protege  of  1821 
engaged  at  a  salary  of  a  few  pounds  weekly  to  write  pieces, 
dramas,  farces,  and  dramatic  squibs  for  Mr.  Davidge,  late 
harlequin,  and  then  manager  of  the  Coburg  Theatre.  Mr. 
Davidge  was  a  hard — a  ruthless — task-master.  No  smile 
rewarded  the  author's  successes,  and  no  mercy  was  shown  to 
the  failures.  And  children  were  coming  to  the  dramatist ; 
already  one  had  been  born,  and  the  grist  must  pour  into  the 
mill.  Literature  had  been  adopted  as  a  crutch  that,  we  are 
told,  should  be  accepted  only  as  a  staff.  There  are  people 
living  who  remember  the  brave  dramatist  trudging  Surrey- 
wards,  "  Little  Shakspeare  in  a  Camlet  Cloak,"  as  he  was 
called,  from  his  ambitious  fervour  and  his  habit  of  wearing  a 
cloak.  As  he  speeds  onward,  he  is  not  thinking  so  much  of 
his  iron-fisted  manager  as  of  the  patent  houses — of  Drury 
Lane  and  Covent  Garden,  where,  it  is  his  firm  belief,  nay,  his 
solemn  determination,  he  shall  see  himself  some  day.  Still 
his  evenings  are  given  to  his  dramatic  writing,  for  his  days 
are  devoted  to  other  work — to  the  Wecldy  Times,  and  to 
stray  contributions  to  the  minor  periodicals  of  the  day — now 
signed  D.  W.  J.,  and  now  "  Henry  Brownrigg."  It  is  mar- 
vellous the  work  that  is  done  daily,  and  the  lightness  of 
heart  that  is  left  for  friends,  even  after  a  galling  interview 
with  Davidge. 

Till  June,  1829,  shall  come,  and  bring  him  fortune,   or 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA.  79 

rather  the  promise  of  fortune,  four  years  must  be  got 
through.  He  has  become,  in  conjunction  with  Dr.  Crucifix, 
the  part  proprietor  of  a  Sunday  newspaper — fruit  all  of  that 
article  on  Der  Freischiitz  dropped  into  Mr.  Bigg's  editor's 
box  ;  so  that  there  is  no  lack  of  work.  His  friend,  Laman 
Blanchard,  is  also  pushing  forward  to  his  goal.  And  here  it 
may  be  well  to  speak  of  the  most  unhappy  mistake  made  by 
all  men  who  have  dwelt  upon  the  life  of  Laman  Blanchard. 

It  has  been  said  by  Sir  Edward  Lytton,  as  by  lesser  com- 
mentators, that  Mr.  Blanchard  passed  a  life  of  intense 
anxiety — of  war  with  the  world,  that  only  very  slowly  con- 
sented to  exchange  the  fruits  of  his  graceful  genius,  for  its 
solid  comforts.  No  statement  could  be  farther  from  the 
truth.  After  a  very  short  struggle  in  London,  it  was  Mr. 
Blanchard's  good  fortune  to  have  one  or  two  powerful  friends 
who  were  inclined  to  give  a  hearing  to  his  tender  and 
eloquent  voice.  He  was  for  some  time  Resident  Secretary 
to  the  Zoological  Society  in  Bruton  Street,  an  institution 
founded  chiefly  through  the  exertions  of  his  brother-in-law, 
N.  Vigors,  M.P.  for  Carlow  ;  and  hence  he  went  direct  from 
good  appointment  to  good  appointment,  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  He  edited,  among  other  papers,  The  Courier,  The 
True  Sun,  and  The  Court  Journal.  He  was  sub-editor  of 
the  Examiner  when  he  died,  and  he  long  enjoyed  the  ripe 
fruits  of  a  large  popularity  as  a  most  gracefully  humorous 
magazine  writer.  If  he  had  a  disappointment  it  must  have 
been  the  neglect  with  which  the  world  received  the  poetic 
gum  that  oozed  from  him — a  neglect  that  has  yet  to  be 
made  good.* 

And  none  of  the  many  friends  whom  Blanchard  left 
behind  him,  were  more  anxious  to  set  his  memory  right  in 
the  esteem  of  the  public,  than  the  companion  of  his  boy- 

*  Blanchard,  as  the  correspondence  with  Sir  K.  Bulwer — now  Lord. 
Lytton  of  Knebworth — has  shown,  was  careless  of  his  laurel  leaves.  Yet 
luight  his  sons  get  together  a  notable  garland  to  his  lasting  honour. 


80  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

hood,  Douglas  Jerrold.  If  the  bitter  grief  the  survivor 
suffered  when,  on  that  mournful  day  in  the  spring  of  1845, 
he  was  bluntly  told  that  the  friend  was  no  more,  could  be 
conveyed  to  the  reader,  it  might  suddenly  convince  him, 
once  and  for  ever,  that  the  author  of  Bubbles  of  the  Bay  was 
a  most  tender-hearted  man.  I  remember  the  morning  well. 
I  remember  finding  my  father  in  a  room,  alone,  at  the  Punch 
office.  His  face  was  white  as  any  paper,  and  his  voice  had 
lost  all  its  clear  sharp  ring. 

"  You  have  heard,  I  suppose  ? "  he  said  to  me  pre- 
sently. 

I  nodded  an  assent.  But  though  he  twitched  his  mouth 
manfully,  tried  to  look  out  of  the  window,  and  had  resolved 
to  bear  the  blow  stoically,  the  effort  was  too  much  for  him. 
He  sank  upon  his  chair,  and,  motioning  me  from  the  room, 
wept,  as  children  weep. 

At  his  friend's  grave  _  his  grief  was  so  completely  beyond 
control  that  he  was  carried  from  the  ground  ;  and  for 
months  afterwards,  alone  in  his  study,  this  sarcastic,  "  bitter  " 
writer — this  "  cynic,''  who  saw  nothing  good  nor  true  in  the 
world — was  heard  by  his  frightened  wife,  calling  aloud  in  a 
voice  nearly  choked  by  tears,  upon  his  lost  companion  to 
come  to  him.  "  I've  called  him.  No,  no  ;  he  can't  come, 
my  boy,"  he  said  wildly  to  a  friend,  who  happened  to  drop 
in  on  one  of  these  sad  evenings. 

But  twenty  years  lie  thickly  studded,  I  insist,  with  plea- 
sures, between  Laman  Blanchard  and  his  grave.  He  has 
yet  thousands  of  kind  things  to  say — thousands  of  quaint 
thoughts  to  set  upon  paper — before  the  curtain  of  death 
shall  fall  between  him  and  the  world.  And,  amid  the  rows 
of  faces  that  shall  appear  at  this  Coburg  theatre,  to  welcome 
the  pieces  of  "  Little  Shakspeare  in  a  Camlet  Cloak,"  shall 
be  Laman's  bright  one  very  often.  At  Sadler's  Wells — even 
at  Vauxhall — shall  this  radiant  face  be  seen  on  its  most 
friendly  mission.      The    Living  Skeleton  ;The  Statue  Lover ; 


THE  DOMESTIC   DRAMA.  81 

Wives  hi/  Advertisement ;  Fifteen  Years  of  a  Drunkard 's  Life  ; 
Ambrose  Gtoinett,  or  a  Seaside  Story  ;  Law  and  Lions;  Sally 
in  our  Alley  ;  John  Overy  ;  Mammon  ;  The  Chieftain's  Oath  ; 
London  Characters ;  Martha  Willis,  are  among  the  produc- 
tions written  by  Douglas  Jerrold,  that  this  bright  face  shall 
encourage  within  the  space  of  three  or  four  years.  Some  of 
these  pieces  shall  be  greatly  successful,  bringing  gold  to  the 
managers ;  but  to  the  author  little  profit  and  little  reputa- 
tion. For  the  arena  of  his  successes  is  an  unlawful,  an  un- 
fashionable one.  The  fight  between  the  patent  houses  and 
the  minor  theatres  has  yet  to  be  fought. 

The  pieces  of  which  I  have  given  the  titles  were,  it  will 
be  seen,  curiously  varied  in  subject.  The  Chieftains  Oath, 
for  instance,  produced  at  Sadler's  Wells,  was  "  a  grand 
aquatic  spectacle "  in  two  acts  (dramatised  from  Ossian's 
poems),  in  which  Mr.  Keeley  played  Rundy  Ramble. 

Fifteen  Years  of  a  Drunkard's  Life  was  written,  with  ex- 
cellent purpose,  for  a  popular  audience  ;  the  moral  being 
shown,  of  course,  in  the  destitution  and  disgrace  which 
intemperance  induces.  Here  are  tender  touches  that  will 
recall  to  any  reader  who  may  be  tempted  to  the  printed 
copy  of  the  piece,  the  author  of  The  Prisoner  of  War. 
Vernon,  the  drunkard,  calls  for  brandy  and  water  made 
according  to  the  true  Shakspearian  precept.  He  explains, 
"  As  for  the  brandy,  nothing  extenuate  ;  and  the  water,  put 
nought  in,  in  malice."  And  when  Vernon's  wife  reproaches 
him  with  the  ruin  of  their  estate,  and  asks  him  whether  she 
has  nut  seen  his  ancestral  halls  fade  away  like  a  vain  pageant 
of  ice,  the  reckless  tippler  makes  answer,  "  Granted  that  you 
have  ;  you  have  still  the  satisfaction  of  your  sex — to  talk  of 
it."  There  is  strong  serious  interest  in  the  piece  throughout. 
It  was,  perhaps,  the  earliest  of  that  long  series  of  "  domestic 
dramas  "  which  Douglas  Jerrold  gave  to  the  English  stage 
producing  a  new  and  original  class  of  dramatic  entertainment 
that  brought  home  the  interest  put  upon  the   scene  to  the 


82  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

hearts  of  the  people.     Of  domestic  drama  he  was  wont  to 
say,  "  A  poor  thing — but  mine  own." 

In  Ambrose  Gwinett  the  domestic  dramatist  approached  the 
seashore,  turning  his  sailor  life,  for  the  moment,  to  some 
small  account.  We  have  a  pressgang  painted  from  the  life 
at  Sheerness  ;  where  the  men  took  off  actors  or  members  of 
the  theatre  band,  because  the  Resolution,  seventy-four  guns, 
was  off  the  dockyard,  and  had  a  stage  on  board. 

Sally  in  our  Alley  is  a  drama  in  two  acts,  in  which  the 
claims  of  the  poor  and  friendless  are  set  forth  yet  again. 
Here,  too,  we  have  Captain  Harpoon,  and  that  lively  fisher- 
man schoolmaster,  Isaac  Perch.  The  great  passion  of 
Perch's  life  has  cost  him  something.  Judge  him.  "  Three 
years  since  a  rich  great  uncle  of  mine,  a  true  civic  cit,  fell 
ill ;  but  whether  his  disease  was  turtle  or  turkey  fever  I 
cared  not  to  inquire.  I  was  at  the  time  in  Hampshire, 
trout-fishing  ;  and,  at  the  veiy  moment  I  was  about  to  hook 
the  king  of  the  stream,  up  came  a  messenger  from  my  uncle. 
'  I  come,'  said  I  ;  '  but  first  let  me  catch  this  trout.'  The 
devil  was  in  the  fish  that  day — it  was  full  fifteen  minutes 
ere  I  hooked  my  prize.  Meanwhile  the  messenger  had  the 
start ;  he  returned  before  me — my  uncle  scratched  me  from 

his  will,  and  I  lost " 

"  '  Flags.  A  fortune.' 
"  '  Isaac.  But  I  caught  a  trout.' " 

Further  on  we  come  up  with  Claws,  a  lawyer,  who  is 
pleasantly  described  as  "  a  legal  cuttle-fish,  troubling  clear 
waters  with  pounce  and  ink  " — the  "  disease  of  the  village." 

"There's  an  odd  story  about  you,"  pursues  malicious 
Isaac  Perch  ;  "  it  is  that,  according  to  Pythagoras,  you  were 
bred  in  the  land  of  Brobdingnag — ay,  that  you  were  a  worm 
there — and  that  one  of  the  giants,  having  used  you  for  bait 
to  catch  sharks,  you  slipped  from  the  hook,  were  taken 
aboard  ship,  brought  to  this  village,  and,  entering  on  your 
second  state,  became  a  pettifogging  lawyer.'' 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  83 

Then  follows  a  scene  in  which  Claws  threatens  Isaac  with 
the  penalties  of  the  law,  because  his  pupils  have  been  stealing 
feathers  from  fowls  and  peacocks,  "  to  construct,  or  make,  or 
cause  to  be  constructed  or  made  therewith,  sundry  things 
called  by  anglers  artificial  flies,"  for  their  master. 

Law  and  Lions  still  sparkles  with  quaint  epigram  and 
points  of  wit.  The  quarrel  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mammoth  is  a 
good  occasion.  Mr.  Mammoth  has  a  poetic  lodger,  who  wins 
his  heart  by  addressing  monodies  and  odes  to  his  animals 
and  insects,  Mr.  Mammoth  being  an  enthusiastic  naturalist. 
Mrs.  Mammoth  fixes  her  eyes  upon  the  lodger's  unpaid 
bills  :  she  is  a  most  doggedly  practical  reasoner.  "  Ask  him 
for  his  bill,"  insists  the  lady.  "  He  has  settled,"  the  hus- 
band replies.  "  How  1  when  ?  "  "  Why,"  continues  the 
naturalist,  "  he  has  given  me  draughts  from  the  Pierian 
spring — a  monody  on  the  death  of  my  piebald  cockchafer 
— a  welcome  to  a  newly  caught  mermaid — a  congratu- 
latory ode  on  the  birth  of  my  three  guinea-pigs — and, 
the  best  bit  yet,  he  has  thrown  in  your  epitaph  as  a  make- 
weight." 

Presently  exasperated  Mammoth  declares  that  "  the  wives 
of  geniuses  live  only  in  the  kitchen  of  imagination."  Mrs. 
Mammoth  will  hereupon  leave  him  for  ever :  he  is  to  con- 
sider her  henceforth  as  dead.  "  A  leaf  from  the  '  Pleasures 
of  Hope,' "  chirps  the  provoking  naturalist.  Mr.  Epic,  the 
lodger,  has  promised  Mammoth  an  appointment  as  keeper  in 
a  menagerie,  provided  always  that  he  will  not,  with  his  new 
dignity,  cast  off  his  old  friends.  Mammoth  is  elated  with 
the  happy  time  coming.  He  will  "  muse  upon  slumbering 
elephants  and  humorous  hyenas,"  and  "print  his  reflec- 
tions.'' To  prove  his  urbanity  he  will  allow  Epic  to  come, 
and  bring  all  the  authors  with  him,  "at  feeding  time."  The 
interview  closes  thus  : — 

"Epic.  Though  this  military  dress"  (ho  is  going  to  a 
masquerade)  "will  not  bo  so  novel  to  mc  as  you  may  imagine. 

o  2 


81  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

A  sad  dog,  I  ran  away  from  the  study  of  the  law,  threw  down 
an  attorney's  inkstand,  and  took  up  a  carbine. 

"Mam.  And  it  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  may  do  the 
most  mischief. 

"  Epic.  Then  gaming  threw  me  from  my  military  steed, 

"  Mam.  (aside).  Knocked  from  his  horse  by  a  billiard  ball — 
not  an  uncommon  occurrence  in  the  army. 

"  Epic.  And  falling  into  the  quagmire  of  poverty- 

"Mam.  You  were  in  the  fittest  situation  to  turn  author. 

"Epic.  But  I  know  my  old  father  will  one  day  forgive  me, 
and  then  adieu  to  scribbling.  A  pen  is  very  well  for  an  amateur 
author,  who  has  nought  to  do  but  spoil  gilt-edge  paper,  and 
make  the  nonsense-tracing  engine  a  tooth-pick ;  but  when 
poverty  transforms  it  into  a  fork  it  is  being  fed  with  iron 
indeed. 

"  Mam,  But  some  men  continue  to  tip  it  with  brass. 

' '  Epic.  Which  the  vulgar  take  for  gold ;  and  he  of  the  base 
metal,  and  he  of  the  pure,  are  in  the  end  the  same. — Enough  of 
this  :  you  will  get  me  the  dress  ? 

"  Mam.  I  will ;  and  you'll  not  forget  me  ? 

"  Epic.  Forget  you!  I  am  now  going  to  my  friend  among  the 
dromedaries  and  buffaloes,  and  there  it  will  be  impossible  to 
forget  you.  [Exeunt  severally." 

But  the  sailor  had  brought  something  from  the  deck  of 
the  Namur  that  should  stand  him  iu  good  stead  shortly. 
He  would  pass  not  long  hence  from  under  the  thumb  of 
managers — a  position  to  be  presently  avenged,  moreover,  in 
Bajazet  Gag ;  or,  the  Manager  in  Search  of  a  Star.  His 
writings  in  the  weekly  papers,  in  Mr.  Wakley's  Ballot,  &c., 
were  beginning  to  bear  him  goodly  fruit.  His  way  was 
clearing  to  the  higher  places — to  the  New  Monthly  and  to 
Blackwood.  Already  he  had  housed  his  family  in  a  cottage 
near  the  Regent's  Park — already  he  began  to  feel  his  feet 
upon  something  like  solid  vantage  ground,  although  the 
Sunday  Monitor  had  led  him  into  grave  difficulties  through 
the  treachery  of  others.  The  world  was  beginning  to  spell 
his  name,  with  difficulty  and  carelessly  yet ;  but  the  syl- 
lables would  flow  easily  from  the  public  lip  not  long  hence. 


THE   DOMESTIC   DRAMA.  85 

He  had  weighty  dreams — was  possessed  with  great  ideas,  to 
be  ripened  when  the  sun  should  shine  a  little. 

In  a  most  fortunate  hour  he  quarrelled  finally  with  Mr. 
Davidge— with  Davidge  who,  could  he  have  seen  the  story 
of  that  little  manuscript  under  the  author's  arm,  would  have 
fallen  upon  his  knees;>and  prayed  for  it  at  any  price.  But 
manager  and  author  parted  in  anger,  and  away  went  the 
latter  direct  to  Mr.  Elliston's  room  at  the  Surrey  Theatre. 
This  manager's  fortunes  were  at  a  low  ebb,  and  he  was  not 
ready  to  adventure  much  ;  but  a  bargain  was  struck ;  an 
encasement  as  dramatic  writer  to  the  establishment,  at  £5 
per  week,  was  concluded ;  and  the  author  deposited  upon 
the  manager's  table,  by  way  of  beginning,  the  "  nautical 
and  domestic"  drama  of  Black-Eyed  Susan;  or,  All  in  the 
Doivns. 

This  renowned  piece,  brought  from  the  deck  of  the  Ernest 
gun-brig,  with  the  sea  breeze  in  it,  and  all  the  rough,  hearty 
manliness  to  be  found  on  his  Majesty's  ships  in  these  days, 
was  first  produced  on  Whit-Monday,  June  8th,  1829,  in  the 
author's  twenty-sixth  year.  The  noisy  holiday-makers  of 
the  Borough  and  of  the  London  Road  were  the  first  critics  of 
a  piece  destined  to  be  played  in  every  quarter  of  the  world, 
and  to  bring  back  fortune  to  graceless  Mr.  Elliston.  Mr.  T. 
P.  Cooke,  who  had  not  played  at  the  Surrey  Theatre  for  ten 
years,  made  his  re-appearance  as  William,  and  was  the  Long 
Tom  Coffin  of  the  afterpiece,  Tlve  Pilot,  It  is  reported  that 
"  the  audience  were  hot  and  noisy  almost  throughout  the 
evening.  Now  and  then,  in  a  lull,  the  seeds  of  wit  intrusted 
by  the  author  to  the  gardener  (Mr.  Buckstone),  were  loudly 
appreciated  ;  but  the  early  scenes  of  Susan's  '  heart-rending 
woe '  could  not  appease  the  clamour.  By-and-by  came  the 
clever  denouement  when,  just  previously  to  the  execution,  the 
captain  enters  with  a  document  proving  William  to  have 
been  discharged  when  he  committed  the  offence.  The  atten- 
tive few  applauded  so  loudly  as  to  silence  the  noisy  audience. 


86  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEPJtOLD. 

They  listened,  and  caught  up  the  capitally-managed  incident 
The  effect  was  startling  and  electrical.  The  whole  audience 
leaped  with  joy,  and  rushed  into  frantic  enthusiasm.  Such 
was  the  commencement  of  the  career  of  a  drama  which,  in 
theatrical  phrase,  has  brought  more  money  to  manager  and 
actor  than  any  piece  of  its  class ;  but  to  its  author  a  sort  of 
sic  vos  non  vobis  result." 

But  the  piece  was  not  greatly  successful  from  the  first 
night.  Its  popularity  grew  by  degrees  to  the  prodigious 
height  it  reached.  Slowly  people  began  to  flock  to  Mr. 
Elliston's  deserted  theatre.  The  pit  and  gallery  filled, 
and  then  the  boxes  presently  showed,  every  night,  packed 
seats  of  goodly  company.  There  were  points  to  touch  all  : 
the  poor,  in  the  sorrow  suffered  by  Susan,  dunned  by  the 
hard  landlord,  Doggrass,  and  in  the  error  against  authority 
of  William,  who  struck  his  commander  to  shield  his  wife 
from  wrong ;  the  respectable  and  the  representatives  of  autho- 
rity, in  the  frank  forgiveness  and  noble  alacrity  to  save  the 
sailor  on  the  part  of  the  offended  officer.  More — there  was 
in  1S29,  an  enthusiastic  love  for  the  navy,  which  is  in  no 
way  represented  to  us  in  that  sentimental  regard  with  which 
we  look  upon  this  noble  service  of  our  now-a-days.  The 
spirit  of  Nelson  was  yet  abroad.  His  name  thrilled  the 
national  heart.  "  All  London,"  wrote  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon, 
in  his  tender  farewell  to  my  father,  printed  in  the  Athenaeum, 
"  all  London  went  over  the  water,  and  Cooke  became  a  per- 
sonage in  society,  as  Garrick  had  been  in  the  days  of  Good- 
man's Fields.  Covent  Garden  borrowed  the  play,  and 
engaged  the  actor  for  an  after-piece.  A  hackney  cab  carried 
the  triumphant  William,  in  his  blue  jacket  and  white  trousers, 
from  the  obelisk  to  Bow  Street ;  and  Mayfair  maidens  wept 
over  the  stirring  situations,  and  laughed  over  the  searching 
dialogue,  which  had  moved,  an  hour  before,  the  tears  and 
merriment  of  the  Borough.  On  the  three  hundredth  night 
of  representation,  the  walls  of  the  theatre  were  illuminated, 


THE  DOMESTIC   DRAMA.  87 

and  vast  multitudes  filled  the  thoroughfares.  When  sub- 
sequently reproduced  at  Drury  Lane,  it  kept  off  ruin  for  a 
time  even  from  that  magnificent  misfortune.  Actors  and 
managers  throughout  the  country  reaped  a  golden  harvest. 
Testimonials  were  got  up  for  Elliston  and  for  Cooke  on  the 
glory  of  its  success,  but  Jerrold's  share  of  the  gain  was 
slight — about  £70  of  the  many  thousands  which  it  realised  for 
the  management.  With  unapproachable  meanness  Elliston 
abstained  from  presenting  the  youthful  writer  with  the  value 
of  a  toothpick  ;  and  Elliston's  biographer,  with  a  kindred 
sense  of  poetic  justice,  while  chanting  the  praises  of  Elliston 
for  producing  Black-Eyed  Susan,  forgets  to  say  who  wrote 
the  play  !  When  the  drama  had  run  three  hundred  nights 
Elliston  said  to  Jerrold,  with  amusing  coolness,  "  My  dear 
boy,  why  don't  you  get  your  friends  to  present  you  with  a 
bit  of  plate  ? " 

The  success  of  Black-Eyed  Susan,  although  it  directly 
brought  but  poor  pecuniary  profit  to  the  author,  could  not 
fail  to  be  of  great  service  to  him.  Of  Douglas  Jerrold's 
popularity  as  a  dramatist,  neither  manager  nor  actor  could 
rob  him.  He  now  set  to  work  more  resolutely  than  ever. 
Before  the  close  of  the  year,  he  had  written  John  Overy, 
and  Vidocq.  He  next  took  an  ambitious  theme — Thomas  d, 
Becket.  But  he  was  still  on  the  Surrey  side  of  London — 
still  in  unlicensed  theatres.  He  saw  his  way  to  the  patent 
houses,  however,  opening  fair  before  him,  and  he  was  not  the 
man  to  be  discouraged  now.  The  ingratitude  of  his  rapa- 
cious managers  he  paid  back  in  epigrams  that  stuck  to  them. 
Four  hundred  times  had  his  piece  been  played  at  different 
theatres  during  the  year  of  its  birth,  and  he  had  received 
about  the  sum  Mr.  Cooke  obtained  for  acting  William  six 
nights  at  Covent  Garden  !  Here  was  a  contrast  to  sour  any 
man,  mox'e  especially  a  man  who  depended  wholly  upon  his 
brain  for  his  bread.  Empty  compliments  were  showered 
upon  him,  but  they  found  him  still  looking  steadfastly,  in 


S3  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

his  own  way,  at  the  injustice  of  his  position,  and  resolved  to 
right  himself. 

"  You'll  be  the  Surrey  Shakspeare,"  said  a  friend  to  him 
on  the  success  of  Thomas  a  Becket. 

"  The  sorry  Shakspeare  you  mean,"  was  the  quick 
retort. 

Of  Davidge,  who  had  ground  him  to  the  utmost,  he  could 
never  speak  patiently.  He  twisted  his  anger  into  biting 
sayings  that  left  no  mere  flesh  wounds.  "  May  he,"  said  the 
ill-used  author,  "  live  to  keep  his  carriage,  and  yet  not  be 
able  to  ride  in  it ! " — a  wish,  spoken  in  anger,  that  was, 
curiously  enough,  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  Davidge  died  early 
one  evening,  and  the  scorn  of  his  meanness  was  still  strong 
in  the  writer's  soul.  "  Humph  !  "  he  said,  "  I  didn't  think 
he'd  die  before  the  half-price  had  come  in."  But  here  and 
there  sweet  consolations  came  to  him — sweet,  as  he  would 
have  said  himself,  as  new-mown  hay.  He  received  these 
with  a  gratitude  almost  childish.  A  favour  conferred  upon 
him  made  the  bestower  sacred  for  ever  in  his  esteem.  And 
when  he  measured  his  own  chivalrous  regard  for  the  lightest 
service,  with  the  ingratitude  he  daily  experienced  on  the  part 
of  many  men  whom  he  himself  had  served,  he  would  say, 
when  told  that  somebody  had  spoken  something  against  him, 
"  Ah  !  I  suppose  1  have  done  him  a  good  turn."  One  writer 
I  can  recall,  but  will  not  name,  to  whom  he  had  given  almost 
his  first  appearance  in  print,  was  among  the  most  perseveiing 
and  unscrupulous  of  his  enemies  afterwards.  Some  friend — 
as  friends  will — mentioned  the  ingratitude.  "  Never  mind," 
Douglas  JeiTold  retorted;  "the  boy  is  sick  to  windward. 
It'll  all  fly  back  in  his  face." 

But  let  us  turn  to  one  of  his  more  gratifying  experiences. 
On  the  siiccess  of  Black-Eyed  Susan  and  Thomas  d,  Becket 
Miss  Mitford  wrote  from  her  retirement  this  kind  letter  to 
the  author,  with  whose  Christian  name  she  was  not  yet 
familiar  : — 


THE   DOMESTIC   DRAMA.  80 

"  December  14th,  1829. 
"Three-Mile  Cross,  near  Reading. 

"Saturday  evening. 

"  My  dear  Sir, 

"  I  have  just  received  from  Mr.  "Will ey  your  very  kind 
and  gratifying  note.  The  plays  which  you  have  been  so  good  as 
to  send  me  are  not  yet  arrived  ;  but,  fearing  from  Mr.  Willey's 
letter  that  it  may  be  some  days  before  I  receive  them,  I  do  not 
delay  writing  to  acknowledge  your  polite  attention.  I  have  as 
yet  read  neither  of  them,  but  I  knoiv  them,  and  shall  be  greatly 
delighted  by  the  merits  which  I  shall  find  in  both — in  the  first, 
by  that  truth  of  the  touch  which  has  commanded  a  popularity 
quite  unrivalled  in  our  day ;  in  the  second,  by  the  higher  and 
prouder  qualities  of  the  tragic  poet.  The  subject  of  Thomas  a 
Becket  interests  me  particularly,  as  I  had  at  one  time  a  design 
to  write  a  tragedy  called  Henry  the  Second,  in  which  his  saintship 
would  have  played  a  principal  part.  My  scheme  was  full  of 
licence  and  anachronism,  embracing  the  apocryphal  story  of 
Rosamond  and  Eleanor,  the  rebellious  sons— not  the  hackneyed 
John  and  Eichard,  but  the  best  and  worst  of  the  four — Henry 
and  Geoffrey,  linking  the  scenes  together  as  best  I  might,  and 
ending  with  the  really  dramatic  catastrophe  of  Erinee  Henry. 
I  do  not  at  all  know  how  the  public  would  have  tolerated  a  play 
so  full  of  faults,  and  it  is  well  replaced  by  your  more  classical 
and  regular  drama.  I  was  greatly  interested  by  the  account  of 
the  enthusiastic  reception  given  by  the  audiences  of  Black-Eyed 
Susan  to  a  successor  rather  above  their-  sphere.  It  was  hearty, 
genial  English — much  like  the  cheering  which  an  election  mob 
might  have  bestowed  on  some  speech  of  Eitt,  or  Burke,  or 
Sheridan,  which  they  were  sure  was  fine,  although  they  hardly 
understood  it. 

"  If  I  had  a  single  copy  of  '  Eienzi'  at  hand  this  should  not  go 
unaccompanied.  I  have  written  to  ask  Mr.  Willey  to  procure  me 
some,  and  I  hope  soon  to  have  the  pleasure  of  requesting  your 
acceptance  of  one.  In  the  meantime  I  pray  you  to  pardon  this 
interlined  and  blotted  note,  so  very  untidy  and  unladylike,  but 
which  I  never  can  help,  and  to  excuse  the  wafer,  and  the 
absence  of  the  Christian  name.         *         *         * 

"  Yeiy  sincerely  yours, 

"M.  E.  MrxroRD." 
*•'  To  —  Jerrold,  Esq., 

"4,  Augustus  Square,  Regent's  Parky 


90  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

The  success  of  Black-Eyed  Susan  suggested  to  the  drama- 
tist a  drama  to  be  founded  on  the  Mutiny  at  the  Nore.  It  is 
a  stirring  story  of  sailor  life.  We  may  see  in  this,  the 
observation  of  the  little  boy  who,  from  his  grandmother's 
window  in  the  Blue  Town,  looked  over  the  dancing  waters  at 
the  Medway's  mouth.  This  second  naval  piece  must  have 
had  no  small  success,  since  it  was  played  at  the  Pavilion, 
the  Coburg,  and  the  Queen's  Theatres  in  1830.  But  the 
author's  way  lies  to  higher  ground  now.  He  is  about  to 
command  his  terms,  and  to  give  parts  to  better  actors.  He 
is  dreaming  of  a  national  drama,  and  of  a  proud  place  in  it, 
naturally  for  himself.  George  Colman  received  £1000  for 
John  Bull ;  Morton  pocketed  a  sum  of  equal  amount  for 
Town  and  Country  ;  Mrs.  Inchbald  was  paid  £800  for  Wives 
as  They  Are  ;  but  then  this  was  in  play-going  days.  Well, 
why  should  the  theatres  be  deserted  1  Very  noble  academies 
for  the  people  might  they  be  made.  And  it  was  the  dream 
of  the  author  of  Black-Eyed  Susan — a  dream  from  which  he 
awoke  somewhat  late  in  life — that  in  his  day  the  national 
drama  might  once  more  be  made  worthy  of  the  nation.  On 
this  head — one  to  which  he  again  and  again  returned,  savage 
to  see  how  little  progress  the  drama  made — as  well  as  on 
the  shameful  monopolies  enjoyed  by  the  patent  theatres,  he 
wrote  to  Mr.  T.  J.  Serle  in  a  dedicatory  letter  accompanying 
the  comedy  entitled  The  Schoolfellows  : — 

"My  dear  Serle, 
' '  Would  the  accompanying  little  comedy  were  more  worthy 
of  your  acceptance  !  It  was  my  wish  to  make  it  so ;  but  the 
evil  crisis  upon  which  we  have  fallen,  rendering  the  exercise 
of  our  art  almost  hopeless — the  system  which  has  flung  the 
dramatic  muse  under  horses'  hoofs,  turning  every  well-con- 
sidered and  elaborate  attempt  at  stage  literature  to  the  confusion 
of  its  projectors — compelled  me,  in  the  present  instance,  to  forego 
my  first  plan  of  five  acts,  and  to  adopt  that  of  two.  In  shorten- 
ing my  labour  I,  no  doubt,  lessened  my  disappointment.  This 
may,  in  some  measure,  account  for,  if  it  do  not  wholly  excuse,  a 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA.  9] 

want  of  minute  development  of  character,  a  hurry  of  incidents, 
and  a  suddenness  of  catastrophe.  The  subject,  to  be  duly  illus- 
trated, required  no  less  than  five  acts ;  but  five  acts  in  these 
days! 

"In  inscribing  to  you  The  Schoolfellows  you  will  not,  I  am 
convinced,  give  the  drama  a  less  cordial  welcome  because 
refused  by  the  professionally  retained  reader  (Mr.  Eeynolds) — 
the  one  reader  appointed  to  the  two  theatres,  Drury  Lane  and 
Covent  Garden.  That  gentleman  was,  doubtless,  correct  in  his 
opinion  that,  for  the  two  patent  stages  the  piece  was  altogether 
ineffective.  But  tell  me,  in  passing  such  sentence,  did  not  the 
one  janitor  to  the  twin  temples  of  fame,  somehow  question  their 
right  to  a  privilege  which  the  legislature  makes  almost  wholly 
its  own  ?  However,  such  was  the  answer  ;  and  though  in  our 
boyhood,  we  may  have  enjoyed  a  scene  in  which  Grimaldi 
fulfilled  at  the  same  moment  the  office  of  porter  to  two  man- 
sions, yet,  with  the  present  exclusive  market,  a  negative  from 
the  one  porter  at  Drury  Lane  and  Covent  Garden,  though  the 
said  porter  has  himself  been  half  a  century  a  comic  writer,  ia 
certainly  not  one  of  his  best  jokes.  Nay,  there  are  better  even 
in  Laugh  When  You  Can. 

"  The  Schoolfellows  was  not,  we  have  it  on  authority,  calcu- 
lated to  attract  sufficient  money  to  either  of  the  two  large 
houses.  I  now  conscientiously  believe  it.  Subsequent  events 
have  confirmed  me  in  the  melancholy  conviction  that  a  writer 
who,  unassisted  by  a  troop  of  horse,  an  earthquake,  a  confla- 
gration, or  a  cataract,  trusts  merely  to  the  conduct  of  his  fable, 
his  words,  and  his  characters,  must  fail,  at  least  in  the  treasury 
sense,  at  either  Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden.  This  is  one  of 
the  sternest  truths  that  men  admit,  for  it  is  a  truth  of  the 
pocket.  When  the  prices  at  the  patent  houses  are  nearly  double 
those  of  what  are  called  the  minor  theatres,  who,  unless  it  be  to 
see  some  extraordinary  raree-show,  wide  away  from  the  real 
purpose  of  the  drama,  will  pay  the  heavier  charge  ? 

"  At  tho  time  I  write,  The  Scl tool  fellows  has  been  acted 
twenty-seven  times,  and  is  still  announced  for  further  repeti- 
tion. '  Yes,'  it  may  be  answered,  '  but  acted  at  a  mmor  theatre, 
where  the  audience  is  less  cultivated,  and,  consequently,  less 
critical — where,  with  an  undistinguishing  appetite,  they  may 
thankfully  devour  tho  refuse  of  Covent  Garden.'  Though  littlo 
disposed  to  make  the  Court  Guide  the  only  test  of  judgmont,  I 


f>2   .  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

might  have  crowded  into  the  page  a  long  list  of  lords  and  ladies 
of  every  degree  of  nobility,  who— for  their  names  have  gemmed 
the  paragraphs  of  newspapers — have  assisted,  to  use  a  French 
phrase,  at  the  unlawful  representation  of  The  Schoolfellows  at  an 
unlicensed  theatre.  This  is  no  extravagance ;  the  tyro  in  heraldry 
might  gain  most  discursive  knowledge  from  the  coach  panels 
that  are  nightly  wedged  in  Tottenham  Street. 

"  This  point  brings  me  to  the  question  on  which  you,  my  dear 
Serle,  have  long  laboured,  distinguishing  yourself  no  less  by  a 
singleness  of  purpose  in  the  advocacy  of  common  sense,  and  of  the 
rights  of  every  man  whose  hard  destiny  it  is  to  live  by  the  sweat  of 
his  pen,  than  by  fervid  eloquence  and  the  soundest  judgment. 
Surely,  excluded  by  a  system  (for  I  make  no  charge  against  indi- 
viduals ;  I  believe  they  are  fully  aware  of  the  hopelessness  of  the 
present  state  of  things)  from  what  the  legislature,  in  its  former 
wisdom,  intended  to  be  the  highest  reward  of  the  dramatist,  when 
told  that  the  only  prizes  to  be  won  at  the  two  theatres  are,  as  in 
some  of  the  olden  games,  to  be  carried  away  upon  horseback — 
when  the  only  Pegasus  of  the  patent  theatres  is  to  be  found  in 
the  mews  of  Mr.  Ducrow — it  is  not  too  much  to  ask  from  the 
government  an  assured  retreat,  where  the  writer  and  the  actor 
may  pursue  their  calling,  safe  from  '  the  armed  heels '  of  bays 
and  piebalds.  It  is  no  answer  for  our  opponents  to  tell  us  there 
are,  for  the  exercise  of  the  art  of  the  dramatist  and  the  player, 
the  minor  theatres.  Those  establishments,  with  only  two  excep- 
tions, are  at  the  mercy  of  the  common  informer  every  night. 
Though  the  patricians  of  the  land,  by  their  patronage,  counte- 
nance the  illegality,  their  licences  are  forfeited.  Thus  they  are 
insecure  in  their  tenure,  and  even  when  licensed  by  the  lord 
chamberlain  are  trammelled  by  absurd  fallacies,  though,  in  sorrow 
I  say  it,  there  is  no  public  functionary  whose  orders  are  so  con- 
stantly evaded  as  are  the  mandates  of  the  royal  key-bearer. 
His  lordship  says  there  shall  be  six  songs  in  each  act  of  every 
burletta,  and  the  due  number  are  constantly  sent  to  the  deputy 
licenser  (nay,  I  know  a  recent  instance  in  which  the  verses  were 
selected  from  the  works  of  the  deputy  himself ),  who  pockets  the  fed 
with  a  full  conviction,  that,  in  five  out  of  six  instances,  not  one 
of  the  songs  will  be  retained,  but  were  merely  sent  to  cheat  the 
unsuspecting  chamberlain ! 

' '  In  the  appeal  which  must  again  be  made  to  the  legislature 
we  have  surely  a  claim  to  the  advocacy  of  those  noblemen  who 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA.  93 

visit  minor  theatres,     Surely  they  will  not  refuse  their  voices 

when  they  have  before  given  their  names.    They  can  hardly  take 

boxes  at  a  playhouse,  and  then,  by  their  vote,  declare  it,  if  not 

mischievous,  unnecessary. 

"  In  the  hope  that  the  question  of  the  existence  of  a  national 

drama  will  meet  with  that  speedy  consideration  which  it  now  so 

strongly  demands,  and  in  the  conviction  that  with  its  purity  and 

elevation   your  efforts  must  meet  with  a  proportionate  reward, 

believe  me,  dear  Serle, 

"Your  sincere  friend, 

"Douglas  Jerrold." 
"Little  Chelsea,  March 20th,  1835." 

The  bitter  allusions  to  animals  iu  the  patent  theatres — 
to  the  advent  of  Ducrow  vice  Shakspeare — came  from  the 
playwright's  heart ;  and  he  treasured,  as  an  illustration  of 
the  state  of  the  stage  in  his  time,  as  well  as  illustrative  of 
the  old  manager  of  Astley's,  the  following  remarkable  letter 
addressed  to  "Mr,   Bunn,  or  Mr.   Russell,   or  Mr.   Peake — 

immediate." 

"Royal  Amphitheatre, 

"  October  23rd,  1838. 
"My  dear  Sir, 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Bunn,  nor  any  of  the  authorities,  will 
be  at  the  theatre  till  late  to-day,  as  there  is  nobody  called  till 
twelve  or  one,  which  is  not  a  fit  call  for  such  requisites  required 
for  to-night's  performance,  as  it  is  not  the  performers,  but  the 
scenery,  gas,  arrangement  of  the  animals'  cages,  and  such 
scandalous  inattention  to  the  above  matters  that  caused  the 
disapprobation  of  the  audience  at  all  times  at  such  disgraceful 
bungling.  I  must  request  for  my  own  reputation,  as  well  as 
that  of  the  theatre,  that  those  departments  may  be  called  and 
looked  to,  viz.,  the  Cataract  Scene  set  immediately,  to  have  it 
simplified,  to  be  enabled  to  have  it  set  and  worked.  The  wood 
decorations  on  the  top  of  the  lions'  cages  requires  cutting  away, 
and  merely  sufficient  to  hide  lights.  It  is  a  disgrace  to  Drury 
Lane,  after  the  first  act  receiving  three  rounds  of  applause,  at 
the  drop  descending  and  being  tho  heaviest,  that  the  second 
part  should  be  spoilt  by  bungling  in  placing  tho  cages,  &c, 
which  1  informed  them  in  the  first  instance  would  be  the  case. 


94  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

The  Fire  Scene  was  scandalously  attended  to,  lit  with  pitch 
torches,  and  smothered  the  audience  with  all  kinds  of  nuisances 
of  lime  and  smoke.  As  the  piece  is  short  I  suggest  that  it  be 
put  in  three  acts  ;  the  second  act  finishing  with  the  Fire  Scene, 
and  thus  allowing  the  time  for  setting  cages  in  third  act.  The 
dresses  were  not  fit  for  Richardson's ;  and,  if  I  had  not  had 
some  few  of  my  own  to  furnish  the  piece,  it  would  have  been 
obliged  to  have  been  stopped ;  and,  as  you  have  no  act  drop,  and 
the  audience  not  knowing  when  the  performances  are  over,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  state  in  the  bills  that  the  whole  of  the  entertain- 
ments of  Monday  and  the  new  spectacle  having  concluded 
before  eleven,  it  has  been  found  essential,  to  facilitate  the 
extensive  arrangements,  to  present  it  in  three  acts,  or  divisions, 
thus  each  bearing  distinctive  points  of  attraction.  I  shall  expect 
the  contents  of  this  attended  to,  as  I  will  not  be  liable  for  the 
neglect  and  fault  of  others.  I  will  thank  you  to  call  some  one 
to  attend  to  the  alteration  and  setting  of  the  scenery  of  second 
act,  as  great  alterations  must  take  place,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
band.  If  Mr.  Bunn  should  not  be  there,  desire  the  carpenters 
to  set  the  Cataract  Scene  directly,  and  make  the  front  flats  work. 
I  shall  be  there  at  twelve  to  give  any  instructions  necessary. 

"  Yours  truly,  with  respect, 

"Ducrow." 
"Mr.  S.  Russell,  &c. 

"  N.B. — The  gentlemen  who  play  the  Arabs  in  the  second  act 
are  to  be  informed  that  their  faces  must  be  coloured  to-night  to 
a  certain  degree." 

The  manager  of  the  beasts  was  evidently  a  much  more 
important  person,  in  those  days,  at  Drury  Lane,  than  the 
manager  of  the  actors. 

Let  me  close  this  chapter  with  one  of  those  hits  which 
the  author  of  Black-Eyed  Susan  often  aimed  at  managers  who 
degraded,  in  his  eyes,  the  national  drama.  When  Black- 
Eyed  Susan  was  in  rehearsal  at  the  Surrey  Theatre,  an  im- 
portant person — in  his  own  estimation — strutted  upon  the 
stage,  and,  speaking  of  Elliston,  the  bacchanalian  manager 
exclaimed  in  an  angry  voice, — 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA.  95 

"  How  is  this  1  I  can  see  a  duke  or  a  prime  minister  any 
time  in  the  morning,  but  I  can  never  see  Mr.  Elliston." 

"  There's  one  comfort,"  my  father  replied,  "  if  Elliston  is 
invisible  in  the  morning,  he'll  do  the  handsome  thing  any 
afternoon  by  seeing  you  twice,  for  at  that  time  of  day  he 
invariably  sees  double." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED. 

The  humorous  story  of  "  The  Manager's  Pig,"  originally 
published  by  Douglas  Jerrold  as  magazine  papers,  is  founded 
on  fact,  the  manager  being  Davidge,  who  determined,  "  in  a 
golden  moment,  upon  the  introduction  of  a  pig  in  a  drama  to 
be  expressly  written  for  the  animal's  capacities.  In  the 
slang  of  the  craft,  the  pig  was  to  be  "  measured  for  his  part." 
The  "  household  author "  of  the  time  was  summoned,  and 
requested  to  write  a  part  for  the  porker.  After  many  in- 
effectual expostulations  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  the  pig's 
drama  was  written.  The  pig  commanded  a  run  of  forty 
nights,  and  then  it  was  suggested  to  the  manager  that  he 
should  eat  him.  Tears  fell  fast  from  the  managerial  eyes  at 
the  bare  idea.  Eat  his  benefactor !  Impossible  !  A  few 
weeks  had  rolled  on,  when  the  household  author  was  sum- 
moned once  more  into  the  managerial  presence.  The  manager 
was  at  dinner — pickled  pork  the  dish.     The  author  started. 

"  What !  not  the  pig  1  Why,  you  said  that  nothing  on 
earth  would  tempt  you  to  eat  that  pig." 

"  No  more  it  could,  sir,"  oried  the  assured  manager. 
"  No,  sir,  no  more  it  could — unless  salted  !  " 

Here  follows  the  moral.  "How  often  is  it  with  men's 
principles  as  with  the  manager's  pig — things  inviolable — im- 
mutable— unless  salted  !  " 

But  Douglas  Jerrold  had  done  with  Messrs.  Davidge  and 
Eiliston  in  1830.     The  shower  of  gold  provoked  by  Black- 


THE  DOMESTIC   DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  97 

Eyed  Susan  had  fallen  into  the  pocket  of  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke, 
and  into  the  treasuries  of  Elliston  and  others ;  bnt  the 
laurels,  lightly  as  the  wearer  estimated  them,  were  his. 

In  "  Punch's  Complete  Letter  Writer,"  the  actor,  applying 
to  a  manager  for  an  engagement,  writes  :  "  My  sailors,  too, 
have  been  accounted  remarkably  good,  especially  at  the  sea- 
ports. I  have  played  William  in  the  Surrey  trash  of  Black- 
Eyed  Susan,  in  a  way  to  make  T.  P.  Cooke  shake  in  his  shoe- 
buckles."  As  something  in  no  way  to  be  proud  of  at  any 
rate — as  something  upon  which  he  did  not  wish  to  have  his 
name  chiefly  based — did  my  father  regard  this,  the  great 
dramatic  success — so  far  as  profit  and  popularity  are  repre- 
sented by  the  number  of  times  the  curtain  has  risen  upon  it 
— of  this  century,  in  England.  He  was  now  on  the  right 
side  of  the  bridges — in  the  neighbourhood  sacred  to  classic 
names.  Drury  Lane  was  quite  ready  to  receive  him.  Would 
he  begin  by  translating  and  adapting  a  piece  from  the 
French  1  Peake  (a  most  genial  gentleman,  for  whom 
Douglas  Jerrold  had  always  a  warm  regard),  and  Mr 
Planche,  were  both  borrowing  from  the  French  stage.  The 
pecuniary  offer  was  tempting,  or  rather  would  have  been 
tempting  to  any  less  fiery  or  rigidly  honourable  man  than 
the  author  of  Black-Eyed  Susan.  To  him  it  was  an  insult, 
and  he  turned  on  his  heel  contemptuously.  He  translate 
from  the  French  !  from  the  French  whom  he  had  not  yet 
learned  to  regard  even  calmly  !  He,  who  had  been  nursed 
on  board  his  Majesty's  ships  in  that  violent  hatred  of 
"  Moumeer"  which  possessed  the  navy  when  Napoleon  was 
in  Paris !  Why,  his  last  seiwice  was  to  bring  Englishmen., 
hacked  by  French  steel,  to  the  comforts  of  a  hospital  at 
home.  No,  he  said  to  Drury  Lane's  manager ;  "  I  will 
come  into  this  theatre  as  an  original  dramatist,  or  not 
at  all." 

He  never  learned  to   talk  with   common  patience   of  the 
translator's  office  :  and  he  regarded  the  adapter  as  somebody 


9S  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

who  managed  to  cozen  a  reputation  for  originality  from  the 
foreigner.  Discussing  one  day  with  Mr.  Planche  this  vexed 
question,  this  gentleman  insisted  upon  claiming  some  of  his 
characters  as  strictly  original  creations. 

"  Do  you  remember  my  baroness  in  Ask  no  Questions  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Planche\ 

"Yes.     Indeed,  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  piece  of  yours 
without  being  struck  by  your  barrenness,"  was  the  retort. 

This  closed  the  discussion  with  a  hearty  laugh. 

With  the  first  fruits  of  fame  from  the  Surrey  side  of  the 
water,  came  friends — friends,  too,  of  importance.  It  is  im- 
possible, however,  for  a  writer  to  be  always  in  and  about 
theatres,  in  the  offices  of  newspapers,  writing  dramatic  criti- 
cisms in  three  or  four  newspapers,  without  by  degrees 
becoming  associated  with  the  more  prominent  litterateurs  of 
the  time.  But  a  critic  and  successful  playwright  who,  in 
addition  to  his  power  over  brother  authors  and  actors,  could 
bring  to  any  social  board  in  this  great  metropolis,  a  wondrous 
fund  of  wit,  a  hearty  nature,  and  a  happy  song,  had  an 
assured  place  in  many  notable  gatherings  of  men.  But  of 
this  presently.  It  is  my  purpose  to  devote  a  separate 
chapter  to  those  social  clubs  with  which  the  name  of 
Douglas  Jen-old  is  associated.  Let  us  follow  the  triumphant 
dramatist  to  the  Adelphi  Theatre.  Here,  on  the  16th  of 
December,  1S30,  was  produced  The  Devil's  Ducat;  or,  the 
Gift  of  Mammon  :  a  Romantic  Drama  in  Two  Acts. 

In  the  "  acting  edition,"  published  by  John  Cumberland, 
we  find  even  "  D.  G."  the  great  writer  of  dramatic  prefaces, 
launching  forth  at  the  translators  and  adapters.  He  writes  : 
"  Of  all  rogues  the  dramatic  depredator  is  the  least  scru- 
pulous and  abashed.  See  what  he  steals !  steals  in  his 
different  capacities  of  translator,  adapter,  and  poacher.  A 
merchant  who  trades  beyond  his  capital  must,  of  necessity, 
borrow  from  somebody;  and  an  author  whose  dramatic 
lumber  exceeds  the  natural  product  of  his  brains  must  draw 


THE   DOMESTIC   DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  D9 

pretty  freely  upon  those  of  others.  To  hold  up  for  public 
sport  the  mere  kite-fliers  of  the  theatrical  world  would  pro- 
duce more  entertainments  than  all  their  pieces  put  together. 
Men  of  straw,  who  never  raised  a  laugh  but  on  borrowed 
jokes,  would  then  be  good  for  hundreds  of  broad  grins.  Had 
the  '  Dunciad '  never  been  written,  how  dull  had  been  the 
scribblers  of  that  day  !  Tom  Osborne  would  have  been  tole- 
rated only  from  having  received  the  singular  honour  of  a 
blow  from  the  literary  Hercules,  Dr.  Johnson  ;  and  the 
caitiff  Curl,  '  so  famed  for  turbulence  and  horns,'  from  the 
classical  distinction  of  having  been  tossed  in  a  blanket  by  the 
Westminster  scholars.  *  *  *  Mr.  Jerrold  does  not  borrow 
from  the  French  ;  neither  does  he  poach  in  the  unfrequented 
fields  of  the  drama,  and  realise  the  fable  of  the  ass  in  the 
lion's  skin.  A  hint  from  an  old  ballad  or  book  is  sufficient  ; 
he  is  content  with  an  apple,  without  stripping  the  whole 
tree.  *  *  *  This  Ducat  '  smells  woundily  of  brimstone.' 
The  idea  is  taken  from  a  goblin  story  related  in  '  Le  Clerk's 
Dictionary.'  The  story  is  one  of  a  famous  magician  and 
his  '  flying  pistole  ' — a  convenient  coin  that  returned  to  his 
purse  whenever  he  spent  it." 

The  plot  of  the  piece  is  the  story  of  two  brothers,  Astolfo 
and  Leandro,  who,  having  been  deprived  of  their  estate,  are 
thrown  upon  the  world.  Astolfo  bears  his  loss  surlily, 
Leandro  is  a  philosopher,  and  is  still  content.  In  his  pros- 
perity Astolfo  had  been  the  accepted  suitor  of  Sabina,  the 
daughter  of  Signor  Botta,  a  rich  miser.  To  Astolfo,  poor, 
the  father  is  false,  but  the  lady  remains  true.  To  sharpen 
his  misfortune,  Nibbio,  the  despoiler  of  his  fortune,  becomes 
his  rival,  and  Sabina  is  about  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  avari- 
cious dotard.  In  his  despair  Astolfo  strolls  to  the  Lake  of 
Tartarus,  where,  being  sleepy,  he  reposes  on  its  banks.  Sud- 
denly the  halls  of  Mammon  appear,  with  all  their  golden 
appurtenances,  and  goblins  (damned)  descend  and  chant  an 
incantation.     These   '  come  like  shadows,  so  depart ; '  and 

h  2 


100  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Astolfo,  after  rising  from  his  sleep,  finds  himself  in  an  open 
country  near  Naples.  He  is  not  long  without  a  companion 
— '  to  whisper  solitude  is  sweet ' — for,  the  earth  opening  a 
few  paces  before  him,  Mammon  emerges  from  the  chasm, 
his  countenance  careworn  and  cadaverous,  his  garments  torn, 
and  his  purse  as  long  as  his  beard.  Astolfo  recoils  with 
horror.  A  sudden  change  takes  place  in  the  Fiend  :  his 
rags  and  mask  disappear,  and  his  form  becomes  invested 
with  a  gorgeous  and  glittering  garment  of  gold ;  a  crown 
caps  his  head,  and  a  sceptre  starts  into  his  hands.  He  offers 
Astolfo  unbounded  wealth  if  he  will  become  his  worshipper. 
The  tempter  prevails.  Astolfo  is  presented  with  the  en- 
chanted ducat,  and  soon  has  proof  of  its  magic  qualities  in  a 
payment  he  makes  to  Signor  Nibbio  for  the  ransom  of  his 
mistress,  Sabina.  Though  counted  two  thousand  times  into 
the  box  of  Nibbio  the  ducat  returns  to  Astolfo's  hand. 
Astolfo  is  accused  of  sorcery — the  marriage  rites  are  sus- 
pended— the  priest  crosses  the  charmed  coin — it  flies  in 
pieces — the  bridegroom  is  about  to  be  seized  as  a  wizard, 
but  is  rescued  by  his  old  tempter,  the  Fiend.  The  ducat  is 
subsequently  secured,  and  stamped  by  the  council  with  a 
flaming  brand;  though  not  without  some  difficulty  is  it 
field  with  a  pair  of  tongs.  No  sooner  is  the  ceremony  over 
than  the  ducat  rises  to  the  sky,  to  shine,  round  and  clear,  as 
a  harvest  moon. 

Astolfo  escapes,  accompanied  by  his  mistress.  He  offers 
the  ducat  to  a  mariner  to  convey  him  over  sea,  who,  recog- 
nising the  flaming  brand,  rejects  it  with  horror.  Astolfo 
hungers,  and  again  tenders  the  accursed  ducat — it  is  of  no 
avail.  In  the  end  Astolfo  dies,  and  is  borne  down  to  the 
infernal  regions  by  the  great  Mammon. 

We  have  here  the  story  of  The  DeviVs  Ducat  The  drama 
is  written  with  all  the  stately  measure  of  blank  verse  :  it  is 
written  ambitiously  too.  I  venture  to  offer  the  reader  a  few 
passages  from  this — the  production,  he  should  remember,  of 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA   CONCLUDED.  101 

a  young  author  in  bis  twenty-seventh  year.  It  is  not  the 
result  of  long  and  solitary  reflection.  It  is  an  effort  thrown 
off  in  the  midst  of  daily  writing  for  the  press — in  the  hurry 
which  always  tells  against  the  author  who  is  writing — not 
only  to  utter  his  inmost  thoughts,  but  also  to  provide  for  the 
material  necessities  of  the  passing  hour. 

In  the  dialogues  between  Astolfo  and  Leandro  we  shall 
find  the  gatherings  of  that  bitter  fruit  which  hard  experience 
brings,  in  abundant  crops,  to  sensitive  men. 

Leandro  calls  contentment  "  the  poor  man's  bank."     But 

Astolfo  says  of  gold, — 

' '  Look  abroad — 
Doth  it  not  give  honour  to  the  worthless, 
Strength  to  the  weak,  beauty  to  wither'd  age, 
And  wisdom  to  the  fool  ?     As  the  world  runs, 
A  devil  with  a  purse  wins  more  regard 
Than  angels  empty-handed." 

Again  : — 


"•6 


"  Proclaim  the  wealthy  knave,  cut-throat,  and  cheat : 
Still  crowds,  as  deaf  as  adders,  crawl  and  bow 
To  him.     Denounce  him  poor  :  as  though  the  plague 
Were  at  his  bones,  he  stands  alone." 

Grillo,  the  notary's  servant,  says,  "  Ha  !  when  rich  rogues 
are  merry  honest  folk  may  go  into  mourning." 
Astolfo  waking  from  a  vision  of  wealth  : — 

"  These,  these  are  mine  !  all  mine  ! 
Ha  !  I  am  mock'd  !     I  wake  to  agony. 
The  sweets  of  slumber,  the  beggar's  solace, 
Are  denied  me  !     Oh,  gold,  gold  !  I  would  seek 
The  centre,  so  that  I  might  welcome  thee  ! 
If  there  be  fiends  who  wait  on  mis'ry's  wish, 
The  ready  ministers  of  reckless  men, 
Giving  for  future  hopes  a  present  good, 
Show' ring  on  desp'rate  creatures  wealth  and  state, 
I  call  upon  ye,  come  !  behold  a  man 
Who  dares  be  villain,  but  dares  not  be  poor  t " 


102  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

Mammon  speaks  : — 

"  Religion's  in  the  heart,  not  in  the  knee  ! 

*  *  *  * 

I  am  earth's  harlequin  ; 
I  build  up  palaces,  put  slaves  on  thrones, 
Erase  the  spots  from  treason's  stained  coat, 
Manacle  warm  youth  to  shivering  age, 
Re-christen  fools  most  wise  and  learned  men, 
And  trumpet  villains  honest." 

The  ducat  is  crossed,  and  no  one  will  have  it.     Astolfo 
and  Sabina  are  alone — deserted. 

"  Astolfo.  Have  I  not  said  enough  ? 
Seest  not  that  all  despise  and  turn  from  me  ? 

Sabina.   Yes  ;  and  therefore  must  not  I. 

Astolfo.  Away  !  I  cannot  love  thee  now. 
Another  hath  my  heart. 

Sabina.  It  cannot  be  ?     Her  name  ? 

Astolfo.  Avarice ! 

That  mole-eyed,  earless  hag,  who  rules  the  souls 
Of  sturdy  knaves  and  impotent  old  age  ; 
Whose  yellow  cheek  out-glows  the  blush  of  youth  ; 
Whose  tinkling  voice  out-choirs  the  angels  ! 

Sabina.  Thou  dost  mistake  thy  noble  nature  : 
Thou  canst  not  be  so  changed. 

Astolfo.   Thou  dost  not  comprehend  her  miracles. 
'Tis  avarice  who  casts  a  blight  and  shade 
Upon  the  world — who  steeps  the  heart  in  gall, 
Though  lips  be  ripe  with  smiles.     'Tis  avarice 
Who  doth  debase,  degrade,  the  soul  of  man, 
Casting  him  down  to  lick  the  dust  before 
His  fellow  dust.     'Tis  avarice 
Whose  bony  fingers  rend  apart  the  ties 
Of  holy  nature  ;  who  sets  on  brothers 
As  we  goad  on  dogs  ;  who  turns  tbe  weapon 
Of  an  impious  child  against  the  sacred  bosom 
Of  a  father." 

Astolfo  reproaches  Mammon  with  treachery  : — 

"  Astolfo.  Pleasures  ! 

Thy  gifts  are  false  as  are  thy  words.     Pleasures 

Mammon.  Thou  hadst — all  have — the  means  of  purer  joys. 


THE   DOMESTIC  DRAMA   CONCLUDED.  10?, 

Astolfo.  Whence? 

Mammon.  Whence  ? 

E'en  here,  beneath  our  feet,  a  captive  lies, 
With  threescore  years  upon  his  whiten'd  head  ; 
Half  his  life  he  hath  worn  a  tyrant's  chain  ; 
He  hath  tamed  and  made  companions  of  the  mouse 
And  spider,  lavishing  on  noisome  things 
Affections  meant  for  men.     To  his  ears  nought 
Is  stranger  than  his  own  voice.     His  jailer, 
In  sullen  dumbness,  leaves  his  daily  crust. 
He  hath  worn  a  couch  in  the  sharp  pavement 
With  his  bones.     Yet  hath  this  wretched  being 
Something  in  his  soul  which  robs  his  dungeon 
Of  its  terrors  ;  which  hangs  its  reeking  walls 
With  budding  flowers  ;  spreads  out  a  bed  of  moss  ; 
Brings,  with  his  sleep,  an  angel  to  his  side, 
Giving  him  glimpses  of  a  far-off  heaven. 
Whence  is  this  power  ?     'Tis  in  the  captive's  heart. 
The  tyrant  festers  in  his  bed  of  state — 
His  virtuous  victim  sweetly  slumbers 
On  a  dungeon's  flint." 

The  success  that  attended  the  performance  of  The  Devil1* 
Ducat  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre  ushered  the  author  triumph- 
antly into  Drury  Lane,  in  the  following  year. 

On  the  8th  of  December,  1831,  his  Majesty's  servants 
presented,  for  the  fn-st  time,  The  Bride  of  Ludgate  :  a  Comic 
Drama  in  Two  Acts,  by  Douglas  J  err  old.  It  was  not  pro- 
duced without  difficulties.  An  actor  who  had  grown  powerful 
as  a  star,  and  who  showed  it  by  unfriendliness  to  the  new 
author,  threw  up  his  part  at  the  last  moment.  Shekel, 
originally  given  to  Mr.  Farren,  was  assumed  suddenly,  and 
with  marked  success,  by  Mr.  James  Russell.  Mr.  Wallack 
was  a  dashing,  graceful  Charles  II.  ;  Mr.  Harley  played  Doe- 
skin ;  Mr.  Cooper  blustered  as  Captain  Mouth  ;  Miss  Thillips 
was  the  bride  Melissa  ;  and  Mrs.  Orger  played  Ruth  Corbet. 
The  plot  discovers  Andrew  Shekel,  the  rich  money-lender  of 
Ludgate,  on  the  eve  of  marriage  with  Melissa,  the  daughter 
of  a  deceased  friend,  and  partisan  of  the  Protector  CromwelL 


104  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERItOLD. 

But  between  May  and  December  there  is  little  sympathy. 
Melissa  has  already  given  her  heart  t«  Mr.  Mapleton,  a 
young  republican,  who  has  fought  against  the  king.  Their 
trysting-place  is  the  exterior  of  Shekel's  house  in  Ludgate. 
Melissa,  the  day  before  her  marriage,  has  been  discovered,  by 
Ruth  Corbet,  old  Shekel's  domestic,  weeping  over  the  picture 
of  a  gallant.  The  Abigail  steals  the  portrait.  The  money- 
lender slily  enters,  and  is  told  that  the  handsome  original  ia 
Ruth's  lover.  The  deceit  is  carried  on  in  the  presence  of 
Melissa,  and  produces  a  fit  of  jealousy — mistress  and  maid 
become  rival  queens,  and  the  former  resolves  to  make  Mr. 
Mapleton  smart  for  his  inconstancy. 

In  the  house  of  Must,  a  vintner,  King  Charles,  Sedley, 
and  Captain  Mouth  are  carousing ;  the  King  has  assumed 
the  character  of  Vincent  Hokenbrock,  the  son  of  a  Dutch 
burgomaster,  who  has  come  to  open  an  account  for  wine  ; 
but  his  real  mission  is  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  the  vint- 
ner's fair  wife.  The  captain  is  a  Bobadil,  aud  had  been 
entertaining  the  vintner  with  some  bombastical  stories  of 
being  one  of  the  party  in  the  Royal  Oak,  and  of  having 
cudgelled  the  Defender  of  the  Faith,  which  Master  Must, 
little  knowing  the  quality  of  his  guest,  repeats,  as  a  good 
joke,  to  the  no  small  amusement  of  the  King  and  confusion 
of  the  Alsatian  bully.  Doeskin,  Shekel's  serving-man,  enters 
with  Must's  silver  tankard  ;  he  is  on  his  way  to  Dr.  Blacktype, 
the  notary,  to  complete  arrangements  for  the  marriage  be- 
tween the  money-lender  and  Melissa.  A  hoax  is  arranged. 
His  Majesty  agrees  to  repair  to  the  house  of  Shekel,  dis- 
guised as  the  representative  of  Dr.  Blacktype,  who  is  made 
to  fall  sick ;  and  Sedley  is  to  take  a  part  in  the  mas- 
querade. 

True  to  his  appointment,  Mapleton  approaches  the  door 
of  Shekel's  house,  and  unexpectedly  encounters  his  old  rival. 
Shekel  instantly  discovers  the  likeness  between  the  stranger 
and  the  miniature,  and  that   he    has  stumbled  on  Ruth's 


THE  DOMESTIC   DJLOtA  CONCLUDED.  105 

lover.  Shekel  gives  him  the  maiden  heartily  ;  opens  his 
door,  desires  him  to  walk  in,  and,  in  case  the  lady  should 
prove  coy,  to  extort  a  capitulation. 

The  lovers  quarrel ;  the  King  and  Sedley  enter  disguised 
as  notary  and  clerk ;  Shekel  insists  on  the  immediate  mar- 
riage of  Mapleton  and  Ruth,  and  a  mock  contract  takes 
place  between  the  parties.  The  adventures  that  follow  must 
be  sought  for  in  the  drama ;  but  the  end  is  that  Mapleton  is 
pardoned  and  married  to  Melissa. 

Let  us  take  some  bits  from  the  dialogue. 

Doeskin,  of  Must,  the  vintner:  "  He,  too,  has  brought  home  a 
young  wife;  and  what  follows  ?  "Why,  his  house  swarms  like  a 
camp,  and  smells  like  a  perfumer's.  Half  the  court  are  there. 
You  might,  any  hour  of  the  day,  pick  a  new  ministry  from  his 
back  parlour." 

King  Charles  of  Captain  Mouth:  "That  fellow  looks  as  warlike, 
yet  withal 's  as  harmless,  as  an  unloaded  field-piece." 

Captain  Mouth  declares  that  "  the  whole  map  of  the 
world  is  marked  in  scars  "  upon  his  body.  Whereto  Doeskin 
replies, — 

"  Any  one  may  see  that.  Only  to  begin ;  there's  Vesuvius  in 
your  throat,  and  the  wine  countries  in  your  nose.  As  for  your 
eyes,  they  are  England  and  France,  for  they  stare  butt  at  one 
another." 

Shekel  orders  music  for  his  wedding  : — 

*'  Go  to  Sackbutt's,  in  Harp  Alley,  and  tell  him  to  bring  his 
band.  Stay,  I'll  have  a  double  number.  Now  listen :  six  fiddles, 
four  flutes,  two  bassoons,  one  clarionet,  and  three  hautboys. 
Do  you  mark  ?  " 

Doeskin.  "Yes;  fiddles,  flutes,  bassoons,  clarionet,  and  haut- 
boys.    Any  horns  ?  " 

Shekel.  "  No,  no." 

Doeskin  (aside).  "  He  doesn't  encourago  superfluities!" 

Melissa  bids  her  maid,  Ruth,  still  pass  as  Mapleton's 
wife. 


10G  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEItROLD. 

Ruth.  "  Pass  !  Really,  this  pretence  is  veiy  tantalising  to  one 
who  wishes  for  plain  dealing." 

"  Can  yon  so  love  an  outcast  and  a  beggar  ? "  Mapleton 
asks  Melissa. 

Melissa.  "  Yes;  for,  nobly  suffered,  injuries  undeserved  do  sit 


When  Mapleton's  suspicion,  finding  Charles  in  Melissa's 
room,  is  cleared  up,  and  Melissa  throws  herself  into  her 
lover's  arms,  Charles  speaks  : — 

"Now,  sir,  are  you  satisfied?  Doth  not  such  fond  breath 
disperse  your  foolish  doubts  ?  Ay,  hug  her  close,  for,  by  my 
faith,  King  Charles,  with  all  his  stars,  could  not  hang  so  rich  a 
jewel  at  your  neck." 

Ruth  rushes  in:  "Oh,  madam!  oh,  sir!  oh,  doctor!  *  *  * 
There's  nothing  but  men  outside." 

Charles.  "  Then  there's  the  greater  hope  for  the  women." 

Captain  Mouth  comes  blustering  in  to  seize  Mapleton. 
diaries  speaks  : — 

"  And  here  he  stalks,  as  though  Colossus  had  quitted  Rhodes 
to  head  a  company." 

Charles,  disguised,  is  seized  by  Mouth.  Mouth  swears 
that  he  will  not  be  bribed — that  his  "  loyalty  is  clear  as 
crystal." 

Charles  [aside).  "  Is  it  so  ?     I'll  try  my  diamonds  on  it." 

The  success  of  The  Bride  of  Ludgate  was  complete.  It  is 
clear  that  it  satisfied  the  management,  and  that  the  author 
was  requested  to  write  again.  In  the  midst  of  other  schemes 
which  were  now  crowding  upon  him  ;  in  the  midst  of  studies 
and  of  reading,  never  for  a  day  put  aside,  The  Rent  Day, 
founded  upon  Sir  David  "Wilkie's  two  celebrated  pictures,  was 
written.  It  is  a  piece  that  belongs  essentially  to  the  "  do- 
mestic drama."     The  interest  is  fireside  interest  throiiirhout. 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  107 

The  story  of  a  farmer's  misfortune,  simply  told,  took  the 
town  by  storm,  and  has  held  the  stage  to  this  hour  ;  for 
there  is  strong  human  emotion  in  the  scenes,  and  emotion 
of  that  universal  kind  which  the  untaught  pauper  under- 
stands as  well  as  the  most  cultivated  gentleman.  The 
characters  are  taken  from  what  is  called  "  humble  life,"  and 
the  audience  is  asked  to  show  some  interest  in  a  sad  but 
simple  farmyard  story.  There  are  bright  things  said  ;  for, 
with  the  author,  bright  things  must  be  said.  They  sparkle 
at  the  tip  of  the  pen,  and  he  cannot  but  write  them  down. 
Suggest  to  him  that  some  of  these  points  should  be  omitted, 
and  he  assents  at  once.  He  does  not  value  them  highly.  I 
am  reminded  that  in  "  one  of  his  plays  an  old  sailor,  trying 
to  snatch  a  kiss  from  a  pretty  girl — as  old  sailors  will — 
received  a  box  on  the  ear.  'There,'  exclaimed  Blue-jacket, 
'  like  my  luck  ;  always  wrecked  on  the  coral  reefs.'  "  The 
manager,  when  the  play  was  read  in  the  green-room,  could 
not  see  the  fun,  and  the  author  struck  it  out. 

The  dramatist  had  to  encounter,  however,  in  addition  to 
the  trials  that  proceed  from  the  dulness  of  managers  and  the 
vanity  of  actors,  the  stupidity  of  the  lord  chamberlain's 
deputy.  These  stupidities  were  of  a  remarkable  kind  in  the 
time  of  George  Colman.  Now-a-days  the  stage  censor, 
although  a  gentleman  well  versed  in  our  dramatic  literature, 
au  accomplished  critic,  and  a  man  who  appears  to  have  an 
affection  for  the  drama,  cannot  be  said  to  make  any  omissions 
in  the  pieces  submitted  to  him,  that  are  not  almost  childishly 
unimportant.  The  reigning  house  would,  I  conceive,  incur 
no  risk,  nor  suffer  any  slight,  if  a  punning  allusion  to  a 
Prince  of  Whales  *  were  allowed  in  a  burlesque  ;  the  truth 
being  that  the  audience,  consisting  of  all  classes  of  society, 
is  the  best,  the  soundest  censor ;  and  that  no  chamberlain's 
deputy  is  wanted.     As  a  sample,   however,  of  the   censor's 

*  An  allusion  lately  erased,  by  order  of  the  lord  chamberlain,  from  a 
burlesque. 


108  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

duties,  I  hereby  present  to  the  reader  a  copy  of  Mr.  George 
dolman's  (late  censor)  reflections  on  the  dangerous  passages 
in  The  Rent  Day.  I  have  the  MS.  before  me  in  the  licen- 
ser's own  hand  : — 

"  23rd  January,  1832. 

"  Please  to  omit  the  following  underlined  words  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  drama  called 

THE  EENT  DAY. 
Act  I. 

Scene  I.  '  The  blessed  little  babes,  God  bless  'em ! 

Scene  III.  '  Heaven  be  kind  to  us,  for  I've  almost  lost  all 
other  hope.' 

Ditto.   '  Damn  him.'' 

Scene  IV.  '  Damn  business.'  '  No,  don't  damn  business.  I'm 
very  drunk,  but  I  can't  damn  business — if  s  profane.' 

Ditto.  '  Isn't  that  an  angel?'  * / can't  tell;  I've  not  been  used  to 
such  company' 

Scene  V.  '  Oh,  Martin,  husband,  for  the  love  of  heaven!' 

Ditto.  '  Heaven  help  us,  heaven  help  us  ! ' 

Act  II. 

Scene  III.  '  Heaven  forgive  you,  can  you  speak  it  ? '  'I  leave 
you,  and  may  heaven  pardon  and  protect  you!' 

Scene  last.  '  Farmer,  neighbours,  heaven  bless  you — let  the 
landlord  take  all  the  rest.' 

Ditto.  '  They  have  now  the  money,  and  heaven  prosper  it  with 
them.' 

"G.  Colman." 

"  To  the  Manager,  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane." 

The  sensitiveness  of  Mr.  George  dolman  on  the  use  of  the 
word  "  heaven "  is  wondrously  amusing,  especially  when  it 
may  be  safely  asserted  that  ninety-nine  in  eveiy  hundred 
pieces  put  upon  the  stage,  in  his  time,  included  these,  to 
him,  objectionable  syllables.  The  word  was  not  used,  per- 
haps, so  often  as  it  might  have  been  had  Mr.  dolman  not 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  100 

been  lord  chamberlain's  deputy ;  just  as,  when  the  lord 
chamberlain  ruled  that  there  should  be  six  songs  (neither 
more  nor  less)  in  any  burletta,  the  managers  sent  in  the 
first  six  songs  that  came  to  hand  (on  one  occasion  three  or 
four  were  by  the  censor  himself),  but  seldom  thought  of 
having  them  sung  upon  the  stage. 

The  Rent  Day  was  in  active  preparation  in  the  first  days  of 
January,  1832.  Rehearsals  were  going  forward  on  the  dingy 
stage  ;  and  behind,  there  was  an  artist  at  work  for  his  old 
shipmate.  That  Namur  man,  who  was  so  useful  in  the 
officers'  theatricals,  has  turned  his  nautical  life  to  account 
also.  Clarkson  Stanfield  and  Douglas  Jerrold,  who  parted 
last  on  board  the  Nore  guard-ship,  shake  hands  at  one  of 
these  dingy  rehearsals — shake  hands  to  become  fast  friends, 
as  they  shall  still,  in  their  respective  paths,  push  forward  to 
their  ultimate  place  in  the  art  and  literature  of  their  common 
country.  Some  years  hence  they  shall  be  sauntering  in 
Richmond  Park,  eagerly  drinking  in  a  little  fresh  air,  after 
sooty  days  spent  in  London.  There  shall  be  other  friends 
with  them.  Matters  theatrical  shall  bubble  up  in  the  careless 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  conversation  ;  and  suddenly  the  Namur 
middy— still  the  middy,  though  silver  is  stealing  along  his 
hair — shall  cry  : — 

"  Let's  have  a  play,  Stanfield,  like  we  had  on  board  the 
Namur." 

Hence  those  many  merry  evenings  passed  among  cordial 
friends  ;  those  hearty  laughs  over  gross  stage  blunders  ;  those 
genial  suppers  after  rehearsals  ;  those  curious  evenings  spent 
upon  the  stage  of  Miss  Kelly's  little  theatre,  when  the  little 
figure  of  the  Namur  midshipman  might  be  dimly  seen  in  the 
centre  of  the  dark  pit,  all  alone  ;  but  the  presence  of  which 
was  most  authoritatively  proved,  very  often,  when  a  clear 
voice  chirped  to  the  bungling  actors  some  pungent  witticism 
or  queer  turn  of  thought,  provoking,  "What,  are  you  there 
Jerrold  !  "  as  a  good-natured  reply  from   the  victim.     Days, 


110  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

these,  long  since  past !  Master  Stephen  is  no  more.  The 
hearty  laugh  that  was  not  the  least  cheerful  part  of  that 
supper  which  wound  up  under  the  hearty  presidency  of  the 
illustrious  Talfourd,  the  first  performance  of  Every  Man  in 
His  Humour  by  the  great  amateurs  who  have  since  earned 
splendid  histrionic  laurels — the  hearty  laugh  of  that  evening, 
I  repeat,  has  died  away,  and  will  be  heard  no  more.  But 
they  were  golden  hours  that  were  ushered  in  during  that 
ramble  in  Richmond  Park,  by  the  two  shipmates. 

The  Rent  Day  was  a  great  success,  and  brought  good 
fortune  to  the  management.  Its  author  now  felt  that  his 
footing  was  firm  in  the  principal  theatre  of  England.  He 
was  in  his  twenty-ninth  year  ;  and,  looking  back  upon  the 
sands  that  had  already  run  from  his  life's  hour-glass,  he 
might  reasonably  sit,  content,  in  his  little  study  in  Seymour 
Terrace,  Chelsea.  He  had  worked  his  hard  way  in  these  few 
years,  from  the  compositor's  desk  to  the  position  of  a  most 
successful  dramatist  ;  nor  had  he  made  his  mark  in  the 
drama  alone,  as  I  shall  presently  endeavour  to  show.  Among 
his  friends  now,  were  men  as  eminent  as  William  Godwin — 
the  great  author  who  lived  long,  as  Hazlitt  expressed  it,  "  in 
the  serene  twilight  of  a  doubtful  immortality  " — the  author 
of  "  Caleb  Williams  "  and  of  "  Political  Justice."  Shelley's 
Political  Bible  was  no  longer  talked  about — no  longer  noticed. 
Even  in  1825,  according  to  Hazlitt,  Godwin  was  thought  of 
"  like  any  eminent  writer  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.' 
Yet  he  was  still  a  thinking,  breathing  man ;  taking  some 
interest,  at  any  rate,  in  the  world  ;  watching  somewhat 
anxiously,  as  became  him,  the  progress  of  his  son.  But  the 
cholera  carried  off  his  only  hope,  in  that  fatal  year  when  it 
counted  so  many  victims.  It  was  after  this  event  that  the 
poor  old  father  turned  to  the  author  of  The  Rent  Day,  and 
asked  his  help,  in  these  friendly  words,  to  have  the  dead 
son's  drama  produced  : — 


THE   DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  Ill 

"No.  13,  New  Palace  Yard, 
"  Saturday,  June  1. 

"  My  dear  Sib, 

' '  I  was  in  great  hope,  after  having  broken  the  ice  in 
Gower  Place,  that  we  should  be  favoured  with  a  visit  from  you 
without  ceremony. 

"You  have,  doubtless,  heard  of  the  revolution  (whether  to 
call  it  for  good  or  for  ill  I  scarcely  know)  which  has  taken  place  in 
my  fortune,  and  has  brought  me  to  this  spot.  At  any  rate,  we 
are  considerably  nearer  to  each  other. 

' '  I  am  sure  you  have  not  forgotten  what  passed  between  us 
respecting  my  poor  son's  drama  of  The  Sleeping  Philosopher. 
You  conceived  you  had  provided  a  reception  for  it  at  the  Olympic 
next  season,  and  were  so  good  as  to  offer  to  make  a  certain 
alteration  in  it. 

"  I  and  his  mother  are  both  anxious  about  its  fate,  and  to  see 
something  done  respecting  it.  Could  you  spare  an  idle  hour  to 
consult  on  the  subject  ?  And  for  that  purpose  would  you  have 
the  goodness  early  to  take  a  chop  with  us  here  ?  Say  Tuesday 
next,  if  convenient  to  you,  at  four  o'clock.  Meanwhile,  believe 
me,  dear  Sir, 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"William  Godwin." 

I  remember  vividly  accompanying  my  father  to  the  dark 
rooms  in  the  New  Palace  Yard,  where  I  saw  an  old  vivacious 
lady  and  an  old  gentleman.  My  father  was  most  anxious 
that  I  should  remember  them  ;  and  I  do  remember  well  that 
he  appeared  to  bear  a  strong  regard  for  them,  and  to  talk  of 
them  more  warmly  than  he  had  spoken  of  ordinary  men  and 
women.  One  anecdote  connected  with  them  he  used  to 
relate  again  and  again  with  great  unction.  I  should  first 
observe  that  my  father  was  a  remarkably  skilled  whistler — 
a  skill  which  he  would  practise  frequently.  He  had  always 
some  ballad  fresh  in  his  memory  ;  and  you  might  know 
when  he  was  stirring  on  summer  mornings,  by  hearing  his 
dressing-room  window  drawn  sharply  up  (he  did  everything 
sharply),  and  a  tender,  small  voice  now  pour  forth,  evidently 
in  the  fulness  of  enjoyment, — 


112  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEREOLD. 

"  Sweet  is  the  ship  that  under  sail 
Spreads  her  white  bosom  to  the  gale  ; " 

and  now  break  into  a  note  as  clear  as  a  lark's  ;  luxuriate  in 
rapid  twists  and  turns  of  melody  ;  then  suddenly  stop,  as  the 
door  was  cast  open,  to  cry  aloud,  "  Now  boys,  boys !  not 
up  yet  1 "  Well,  one  morning  he  called  on  the  Godwins, 
and  was  kept  for  some  minutes  waiting  in  their  drawing- 
room.  It  was  irresistible — he  could  never  think  of  these 
things.  Whistle  in  a  lady's  drawing-room  !  The  languid 
eyes  of  Belgravia  turn  upward.  Still  he  did  whistle — not 
only  pianissimo  but  fortissimo,  with  variations  enough  to 
satisfy  the  most  ambitious  of  thrushes.  Suddenly  good 
little  Mrs.  Godwin  gently  opened  the  door,  paused  still — 
not  seen  by  the  performer — to  catch  the  dying  notes  of 
the  air,  and  then,  coming  up  to  her  visitor,  startled  him 
with  the  request,  made  in  all  seriousness,  "You  couldn't 
whistle  that  again,  could  you  1 " 

The  successes  of  Drury  Lane  in  1831-2  were  rapidly 
followed  up.  It  is  unnecessary  for  me,  in  this  place,  to  offer 
the  reader  the  stories  of  pieces  so  well  known  as  Nell  Givynne^ 
produced  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  in  January,  1833 — in 
which  Mr.  Keeley,  as  Orange  Moll,  and  Miss  Taylor  (now 
Mrs.  Walter  Lacy),  as  the  heroine,  made  great  hits  :  as  The 
Housekeeper,  first  produced  at  the  Haymarket,  also  in  1833  : 
as  The  Wedding  Gown,  produced  on  the  2nd  of  January, 
1834,  and  in  the  following  month  represented  before  his 
Majesty  by  special  desire  :    as  Beau  Nash*  also  produced 

*  Mr.  John  Forster,  the  English  essayist,  wrote  the  following  criticism  of 
Beau  Nash  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  for  August,  1834,  the  kindness 
of  which  touched  the  perplexed  dramatist  deeply  : — 

"  The  days  of  Beau  Nash  have  been  revived  at  this  pleasant  little 
theatre.  Gentlemen  with  toupees  and  powder,  and  coats  stuck  out  with 
buckram,  and  legs  with  stockings  above  the  knee  ;  ladies  with  hoops  and 
'slippered  stilts,'  and  heads  built  up  with  enormous  piles  of  hair  and 
ribbon  ;  swindlers  who  are  gentlemen,  and  gentlemen  who  are  swindlers, 
compounding  with  a  quiet  and    liberal  ease  all  pedantic  distinctions  of 


DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  113 

in  1834,  at  the  Haymarket,  on  the  lGth  of  July.     These 
pieces,  save  the  last,  were  rapidly  written,  and  were  all  very 

meum  and  tuum ;  with  the  immortal  Nash  himself  presiding  over  all, 
the  decus  et  solamen  of  the  pump-room,  the  watchful  lynx  of  the  gaming- 
table, the  darling  of  fashionable  and  conventional  absurdity,  yet  withal  no 
unkindly  pattern  of  our  better  human  species.  For  this  we  are  obliged  to 
Mr.  Jerrold.  We  differ  very  widely  from  the  writers  who  have  blamed 
him  for  selecting  such  a  subject  in  the  first  place  ;  in  the  Dext  for  treating 
it  unsqueamishly  (in  other  words,  for  ransacking  and  exposing  its  foibles, 
its  weaknesses,  and  its  follies)  ;  and,  in  the  last,  for  an  entire  and  most 
uncharitable  absence  of  a  few  'startling  situations,'  that  might  have 
made  all  these  odds  more  even.  Such  objections  may  be  fairly  termed 
high  praise.  Surely,  if  any  object  could  propose  itself  to  a  writer  of 
Mr.  Jerrold's  peculiar  faculty  of  observation  and  wit,  worthy  of  all  success 
and  of  all  the  rewards,  present  and  future,  that  should  attend  it,  here  it 
is.  He  strives  to  fix,  in  permanent  colours,  some  of  the  fleeting  bygone 
follies  of  mankind.  Long  ago,  from  the  groves  and  glories  of  Bath,  its 
assembly,  its  pump-room,  and  its  wells,  a  'parting  genius  was  with 
sighing  sent,'  which  now  the  dramatist  restores  to  us  in  his  habit  as  he 
lived,  with  his  tawdry  dress  and  his  white  hat,  putting  him  on  the  real 
scene,  with  the  real  associates  of  his  life  around  him,  fearing  not  to 
make  them  occupy  what  is  now  rare  and  dangerous  ground  (for  the 
stage,  now-a-days,  must  reduce  everything  either  to  strict  morality  or  to 
'open  manslaughter  and  bold  bawdry  ' ) — that  neutral  ground  of  character 
which  stands  between  vice  and  virtue,  which  is,  in  fact,  indifferent  to 
neither,  the  '  happy  breathing-place  from  the  burden  of  a  perpetual  mora 
questioning,'  and  scorning  to  mar  the  truth  of  his  picture  by  any  merely 
trading  convulsions  or  startling  situations.  This  it  is,  as  Mr.  Jerrold 
delicately,  but  proudly  intimates  in  his  preface  to  the  published  drama,  to 
write  a  'comedy  of  manners.'  The  writer  can  truly  affirm,'  Mr.  Jerrold 
continues,  '  that  much  less  labour  of  thought,  much  less  vain  research,  thai) 
was  exercised  to  give  a  dramatic  existence  to  Beau  Nash  sufficed  to  pro- 
duce any  two  of  the  most  successful  dramas  named  in  the  preceding  title- 
page.'     We  do  not  doubt  it. 

"The  principal  hints,  however,  of  the  drama  (historical)  have  been 
derived  from  a  'Life  of  Richard  Nash,  Esq.,'  now  extant,  and  written  in 
such  choice  English  as  to  have  the  honour  of  being  attributed  to  Gold- 
smith. The  eccentricities  which  figure  throughout  the  memoir  are  woven 
with  great  skill  and  acuteness  into  the  conduct  of  the  comedy.  Nash 
is  equally  familiar  with  lords  and  pickpockets;  is  a  desperate  slave  to 
gaming,  yet  the  active  preserver  of  many  of  its  victims  ;  encourages  play 
as   a  useful  vice,  while  he   makes  charity  a  fashionable  virtue  ;    strips 

i 


114  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

successful.  1835,  however,  was  the  most  remarkable  dramatic 
year  in  the  life  of  Douglas  Jen-old.     For  the  17th  of  February 

sword  wearers  and  apron  wearers  of  their  swords  and  aprons ;  and  con- 
descends to  write  for  the  puppets  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Powell  a  satire 
against  the  slatternly  hoot  wearers  of  Bath,  wherein  Punch,  '  having  thrown 
his  wife  out  of  window,  goeth  tranquilly  to  bed  in  his  boots.'  This  Mr. 
Powell,  whose  peculiarities  are  pleasantly  hit  off  by  Mr.  Jerrold  in  a 
sketch  of  his  chief  assistant,  Thespis  Claptrap,  is  he  of  the  'Tatler'  and 
'  Spectator,'  whose  '  skill  in  motions'  has  been  immortalized  by  the  genius 
of  Sir  Richard  Steele.  Who  can  ever  forget  the  exquisite  letter  of  the 
under-sexton  of  the  parish  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden,  complaining  of 
his  congregation  taking  the  warning  of  his  hell,  morning  and  evening,  to 
pa  to  a  puppet  show  set  forth  by  'one  Powell,'  under  the  Piazzas?  by 
•Vhich  he  had  not  only  lost  his  two  customers,  whom  he  used  to  place 
for  sixpence  apiece  over  against  Mrs.  Rachael  Eyebright,  but  Mrs.  Racbael 
herself  had  gone  thither  also.  '  I  have  placed  my  son  at  the  Piazzas,' 
says  the  despairing  sexton,  'to  acquaint  the  ladies  that  the  bell  rings 
for  church,  and  that  it  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  Garden  ;  but 
they  only  laugh  at  the  child.  As  things  now  are,  Mr.  Powell  has  a  full 
congregation,  while  we  have  a  very  thin  house.'  This  rage  for  puppets 
is  pleasantly  transferred  to  Bath.  It  adds  to  the  characteristic  picture 
of  life  and  manners  on  the  scene.  Another  purely  historical  personage 
in  the  comedy  is  the  famous  reclaimed  rogue,  Jack  Baxter.  Speaking 
ot  the  two,  Nash  and  Jack,  the  lauded  potentate  and  the  laudatory  pick- 
pocket, Mr.  Jerrold  remarks  that  '  two  or  three  stern  thinkers,  who  have 
objected  to  the  want  of  a  moral  tendency  in  the  comedy,  may  say  of  the 
king  and  the  sharper,  Arcades  ambo  1  All  the  author  has  to  reply  to 
this  is,  he  disputes  not  such  classification.'     Why  should  he  ? 

"This  brings  us  to  what  we  commenced  with.  He  has  done  right 
and  boldly  in  leaving  these  characters  as  they  were.  He  has  effected  the 
purpose  of  perpetuating  manners  and  society  in  a  certain  conventional 
aspect,  and  the  picture  will  live.  It  is  not  his  fault  if  some  of  his  per- 
sonages are  mere  puppets — moral  or  immoral  as  the  strings  are  pulled. 
Such  is  artificial  society  ever.  We  leave  the  moral  Quixotes  to  fight 
against  them  as  they  may ;  or  we  leave  them,  '  in  their  anxiety  that 
their  morality  should  not  take  cold,  to  wrap  it  up  in  a  great  blanket 
surtout  of  precaution  against  the  breeze  and  sunshine.' 

"Meanwhile  we  beg  of  our  wiser  readers  to  enjoy  with  us  the  'breeze 
and  sunshine'  of  Mr.  Jerrold's  dialogue  in  this  little  theatre.  It  is 
sharp  as  well  as  smiling,  full  of  wit  and  sprightliness.  Of  one  thing, 
however,  we  would  remind  Mr.  Jerrold — that  in  a  comedy  of  manners 
it  is  of  infinitely  greater  importance  to  sustain  constantly  before  us  the 


DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  115 

is  the  date  of  the  production  of  The  Hazard  of  the  Die,  in 
two  acts,  at  Drury  Lane  ;  The  Schoolfellows,  at  the  Queen's 
Theatre ;  and  The  Man's  an  Ass,  at  the  Olympic,  under 
Madame  Vestris's  management.  More — on  the  following 
night,  at  Drury  Lane,  Black-Eyed  Susan  was  the  after-piece 
to  the  new  drama.  At  Drury  Lane  a  complete  triumph  was 
achieved,  aided  by  the  acting  of  Wallack  and  Webster.  The 
Schoolfellows  had  a  long  run  at  the  Queen's,  supported  by 
Elton  and  Mrs.  Nisbet  ;  but  the  Olympic  piece  failed, 
although  Liston  and  Frank  Matthews  supported  it.  It 
appears  that  there  was  a  "  ticklish  turn  " — possibly  some 
distasteful  allusion  in  it — which  displeased  the  audience,  and 
moved  them  to  condemn  it.  But  the  papers  praised  it,  and 
regretted  the  accident  that  deprived  the  stage  of  "  some 
good  material."  This  fruitful  dramatic  year  was  closed  by 
the  appearance  of  Doves  in  a  Cage,  at  the  Adelphi,  on  the 
21st  of  December.  The  variety  of  subject  in  these  pieces — 
the  produce  of  a  single  year,  written  in  long  evenings  after 
days  given  to  magazines  and  papers — will  strike  any  reader 

given  picture  of  life  and  character,  than  to  expose  in  good  set  satire  its 
errors  or  false  pretensions.  We  must  make  a  charge  here,  too,  against 
our  accomplished  author,  which  we  have  elsewhere  made  more  than  once. 
He  is  too  fond  of  repartee.  He  can  bear  to  be  told  this,  for  he  shares 
the  fault  in  very  illustrious  company.  Congreve  always  made  wit  too 
much  the  business,  instead  of  the  ornament  of  his  comedies.  In  Mr. 
Jerrold's  dialogue  passages  are  every  now  and  then  peeping  out,  which 
seem  to  have  been  prepared,  '  cut  and  dry,'  for  the  scene.  The  speaker 
has  evidently  brought  them  with  him  ;  he  has  not  caught  them  on  the 
scene  by  the  help  of  some  light  of  dialogue  or  suggestion  of  present  circum- 
stances. We  beg  of  Mr.  Jerrold  to  consider  this  more  curiously  in  his 
next  production,  and  we  beg  of  him  to  lose  no  time  iu  favouring  ns  again. 
We  ought  to  say  one  word  of  the  acting.  It  is  good,  though  not  of  the 
highest  order.  Mr.  Farren  has  set  up  too  high  a  standard  in  many  of  his 
own  achievements,  to  leave  us  always  satisfied  with  what  he  does  ;  but  he 
is  great  in  Nash — now  and  then.  Mr.  Brindal  plays  Lavender  Tom  in  a 
way  that  is  quite  worthy  of  that  delicate  and  admirable  sketch,  and  more 
we  cannot  say.  Huckstone  and  Webster  are  also  good,  and  Mrs.  Nisbett 
looks  charmingly  with  her  hoop  and  powder,  and  black  sparkling  eyes.'" 

i  2 


116  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

who  shall  read  them,  bearing  in  mind  the  time  and  circum- 
stance of  their  birth.  In  one  scene  are  touches  of  infinite 
tenderness,  and  in  another  is  found  a  whole  bouquet  of  intel- 
lectual fireworks.  Take  this  portrait  of  a  runaway  school 
girl  from  The  Schoolfettoivs.  "  Talk  of  Venus  rising  from  the 
sea  !  Were  I  to  paint  a  Venus  she  should  be  escaping  from  a 
cottage  window,  with  a  face  now  white,  now  red,  as  the  roses 
nodding  about  it ;  an  eye  like  her  own  star  ;  lips  sweetening 
the  jasmine,  as  it  clings  to  hold  them  ;  a  face  and  form  in 
which  harmonious  thoughts  seem  as  vital  breath  !  Nothing 
but  should  speak  :  her  little  hand  should  tell  a  love  tale  ; 
nay,  her  very  foot,  planted  on  the  ladder,  should  utter  elo- 
quence enough  to  stop  a  hermit  at  his  beads,  and  make  him 
watchman  whilst  the  lady  fled." 

Beau  Nash  described  : — "  He  is  in  Bath  the  despot  of  the 
mode,  the  Nero  of  the  realm  of  skirts,  the  Tiberius  of  a  silk 
stocking.  'Tis  said  his  father  was  a  blower  of  glass,  and  they 
who  best  know  Nash  see  in  the  son  confirmation  of  the 
legend.  'Tis  certain  our  monarch  started  in  life  in  a  red 
coat  ;  changed  it  for  a  Templar's  suit  of  black  ;  played  and 
elbowed  his  way  up  the  back-stairs  of  fashion  ;  came  to  our 
city  ;  championed  the  virtue  of  the  wells  against  the  malice 
of  a  physician ;  drove  the  doctor  from  his  post ;  founded  the 
pump-room  and  assembly  house  ;  mounted  the  throne  of 
etiquette ;  put  on  her  crown  of  peacock  plumes  ;  and  here 
he  sits,  Richard  Nash,  by  the  grace  of  impudence,  king  of 
Bath  ! " 

The  rapid  and  remarkable  dramatic  successes  of  this  year 
turned  the  thoughts  of  their  author — and  very  naturally — 
most  passionately  towards  the  stage.  In  1836  he  was  tempted 
into  the  joint  management  of  the  Strand  Theatre  with  his 
brother-in-law,  Mr.  W.  J.  Hammond.  The  speculation  pros- 
pered little  while  the  partnership  lasted.  Mr.  W.  J.  Ham- 
mond spoke  an  address,  evidently  written  by  his  seceding 
partner,  in  which  he  said,  "  We  began  with  a  tragic  drama, 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA   CONCLUDED.  117 

The  Painter  of  Ghent ;  but,  as  the  aspect  of  the  boxes  and 
pit  was  much  more  tragic  than  we  could  wish,  we  in  sailor's 
phrase  'let  go  the  painter.'  We  tried  something  like  a 
ballet,  which,  after  a  few  nights  (but  purely  out  of  mercy  to 
the  reputation  of  Taglioni  and  Perrot),  we  withdrew.  We 
found  that  our  legs  were  not  very  good,  and  so  we  resolved 
to  produce  comedy  of  words  and  character  ;  in  other  phrase, 
mistrusting  our  legs,  we  resolved  henceforth  to  stand  only 
upon  our — head."  The  dramatist  wrote,  under  the  old  nom 
de  plume  of  Henry  Brownrigg,  many  short  pieces  for  his 
little  stage  within  a  few  months,  viz.  : — The  BUl-Sticker  ; 
Hercules  King  of  Clubs ;  The  Perils  of  Pippins;  or,  An  Old 
House  in  the  City;  and  lastly,  the  one-act  tragedy  entitled 
Tlie  Painter  of  Ghent.  In  this  tragedy  the  author  appeared 
on  the  stage,  acting  Boderick.  His  success  was  not  marked ; 
and  after  playing  during  a  fortnight  he  most  wisely  abandoned 
an  idea,  very  hastily  taken,  of  realising  upon  the  stage  some 
of  his  own  creations.  His  subsequent  successes  as  an  ama- 
teur prove  that  he  had  a  fine — indeed,  an  excpiisite — sense  of 
the  more  delicate  touches  by  which  character  is  perfectly 
rendered  on  the  mimic  scene.  As  Master  Stephen,  in  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour,  he  contrasted  in  no  sense  unfavourably, 
even  with  the  masterly  Bobadil  presented  by  Mr.  Charles 
Dickens.  But  to  his  free  spirit,  his  studious  habit,  the 
claims  upon  an  actor  were  repulsive — so  repulsive  that  in 
after-life  he  always  avoided  any  mention  of  this  his  folly,  as 
he  would  call  it,  of  1836.  Edmund  Kean  was  as  fitted  for 
a  soldier  in  a  New  South  Wales  regiment  (his  ambition  for  a 
moment)  as  Douglas  Jerrold  was  for  a  life  upon  the  boards. 
Indeed,  as  I  have  remarked  in  the  opening  pages  of  this 
volume,  my  father  disliked  the  theatre  behind  the  scenes, 
and  Beldom  went  there  save  to  witness  a  rehearsal.  He 
would  generally  attend  on  the  first  night  of  the  performance 
of  his  piece  :  but  he  rarely  saw  the  same  piece  twice.  Bis 
idea,  as  realised,  generally  disgusted  him.     He  .saw  it  with 


US  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

all  the  delicate  touches  rubbed  away — a  shadow,  or  a  vulgar 
caricature.  His  quarrels  with  actors  were  incessant,  because 
they  would  take  their  idea  and  not  his  idea  of  a  part.  He 
allowed  largely,  however,  for  the  intoxication  of  applause, 
brought  home  hot  and  hot  to  the  actor's  ears.  He  saw  that 
the  stage,  to  the  man  who  trod  it  daily,  must  be  a  forcing 
pit  for  his  vanity.  "  How,  indeed,  is  it  possible  he  should 
escape  the  sweet  malady  1 "  he  wrote  in  the  "  Story  of  a 
Feather."  "  You  take  a  man  of  average  clay  ;  you  breathe 
in  him  a  divine  afflatus ;  you  fill  him  with  the  words  of  a 
poet,  a  wit,  a  humorist  ;  he  is,  even  when  he  knows  it  not, 
raised,  sublimated  by  the  foreign  nature  within  him.  Garrick 
enters  as  Macbeth.  What  a  storm  of  shouts  !  what  odorife- 
rous breath  in  'bravos,'  seething  and  melting  the  actor's 
heart  !  Is  it  possible  that  this  man,  so  fondled,  so  shouted 
to,  so  dandled  by  the  world,  can  at  bedtime  take  off  the  whole 
of  Macbeth  with  his  stockings  1  He  is  always  something 
more  than  David  Garrick,  householder  in  the  Adelphi.  He 
continually  carries  about  him  pieces  of  greatness  not  his 
own  ;  his  moral  self  is  encased  in  a  harlequin's  jacket — the 
patches  from  Parnassus.  The  being  of  the  actor  is  multi- 
plied ;  it  is  cast,  for  a  time,  in  a  hundred  different  moulds. 
Hence  what  a  puzzle  and  a  difficulty  for  David  to  pick  David, 
and  nothing  more  than  David,  from  the  many  runnings  ! 
And  then  an  actor,  by  his  position,-  takes  his  draughts  of 
glory  so  hot  and  so  spiced — (see,  there  are  hundreds  of  hands 
holding  to  him  smoking  goblets  !  ) — that  he  must,  much  of 
his  time,  live  in  a  sweet  intoxication,  which,  forsooth,  hard- 
thinking  people  call  conceit.  To  other  folks  reputation 
comes  with  a  more  gentle,  more  divine  approach.  You,  sir, 
have  carved  a  Venus,  whose  marble  mouth  would  smile  para- 
lysis from  Nestor ;  you  have  painted  a  picture,  and,  with 
Promethean  trick,  have  fixed  a  fire  from  heaven  on  the 
canvas  ;  you  have  penned  a  book,  and  made  tens  of  thousands 
of  brains   musical  with  divinest  humanity — kings  have  no 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  119 

such  music  from  cymbals,  sackbut,  and  psaltery,  and  to  each 
of  you  reputation  comes  silently,  like  a  fairy,  through  youi 
study  keyhole  ;  you  quaff  renown  refined,  cold-drawn — cold 
as  castor-oil ;  and,  sir,  if  you  be  a  true  philosopher,  you  will 
swallow  it  as  a  thing  no  less  medicinal." 

The  stage,  then,  was  rapidly  abandoned,  and  back  went  the 
author  to  his  study,  never  more  to  leave  it.  He  was  so  dis- 
gusted with  his  brief  experience  as  actor  and  manager,  that 
he  could  never  afterwards  bear  the  least  allusion  to  it. 
Indeed,  it  was  matter  of  serious  debate  with  him  whether  he 
would  again  commit  his  thoughts  to  the  interpretation  of 
actors — whether  henceforth  he  should  not  confine  himself  to 
the  care  of  the  printer  exclusively.  He  turned  resolutely, 
this  is  certaiu,  at  this  time,  to  writing  not  meant  for  the 
stage  ;  and  I  part  at  this  point  from  his  dramatic  successes 
to  dwell  upon  the  activity  he  exhibited  in  his  mid-career,  in 
other  branches  of  literature. 

His  introduction  to  Ndl  G-wynne,  however,  should  have 
place  in  this  chapter.  He  writes,  in  explanation  of  his 
theme  : — 

"Whilst  we  may  safely  reject  as  unfounded  gossip  many  of 
the  stories  associated  with  the  name  of  Nell  Gwynne,  we  cannot 
refuse  belief  to  the  various  proofs  of  kind-heartedness,  liberality, 
and — taking  into  consideration  her  subsequent  power  to  do  harm 
— absolute  goodness,  of  a  woman  mingling,  if  we  may  believe  a 
passage  in  Pepys,  from  her  earliest  years  in  the  most  depraved 
scenes  of  a  most  dissolute  age.  The  life  of  Nell  Gwynne,  from 
the  time  of  her  connection  with  Charles  II.  to  that  of  her  death, 
proved  that  error  had  been  forced  upon  her  by  circumstances, 
rather  than  indulged  by  choice.  It  was  under  this  impression 
that  the  present  little  comedy  was  undertaken.  Under  this 
conviction  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  show  some  glimpses  of 
the  '  silver  lining '  of  a  character,  to  whose  influence  over  an 
unprincipled  voluptuary  wo  owe  a  national  asylum  for  veteran 
soldiers  :  and  whose  brightness  shines  with  the  most  amiable 
lustre  in  many  actions  of  her  life,  and  in  the  last  disposal  of  her 
worldly  effects. 


120  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

"Nell  Gwynne  first  attended  the  theatre  as  an  orange-girl. 
"WTiether  she  assumed  the  calling  in  order  to  attract  the  notice 
of  Betterton,  who,  it  is  said,  on  having  heard  her  recite  and 
sing,  discouraged  her'  hopes  of  theatrical  eminence  ;  or  whether 
her  love  of  the  stage  grew  from  her  original  trade  of  play-house 
fruit-girl,  has  not  yet  been  clearly  shown.  Indeed,  nothing 
certain  can  be  gathered  of  her  parentage  or  place  of  birth. 
Even  her  name  has  lately  been  disputed.  That  from  '  the  pit 
she  mounted  to  the  stage'  is,  however,  on  the  poetic  testimony 
of  Rochester,  indisputable : — 

'  The  orange-basket  her  fair  arm  did  suit, 
Laden  with  pippins  and  Hesperian  fruit  ; 
This  first  step  raised,  to  the  wond'ring  pit  she  sold 
The  lovely  fruit,  smiling  with  streaks  of  gold. 
Fate  now  for  her  did  its  old  force  engage, 
And  from  the  pit  she  mounted  to  the  stage ; 
There  in  full  lustre  did  her  glories  shine, 
And,  long  eclipsed,  spread  forth  their  light  divine  ; 
There  Hart  and  Rowley's  soul  she  did  ensnare, 
And  made  a  king  a  rival  to  a  player.' 

"She  spoke  a  new  proiogue  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle;  she  afterwards  played  Queen 
Almahide  in  Dryden's  Conquest  of  Granada,  besides  speaking  the 
prologue  '  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  waist  belt.'  The  history 
of  this  hat  is  given  by  old  Downes,  the  prompter,  in  his  valu- 
able Roscius  Anglicanus,  a  chance  perusal  of  which  first  suggested 
the  idea  of  this  drama. 

"  All  the  characters  in  the  comedy,  with  but  two  exceptions, 
and  allowing  the  story  that  the  first  love  of  Nell  was  really  an 
old  lawyer,  figured  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.  For  the  intro- 
duction of  Orange  Moll  (so  inimitably  acted  by  Mi-.  Keeley)  the 
author  pleads  the  authority  of  Pepys,  who,  in  the  following 
passage,  proves  the  existence  and  notoriety  of  some  such  per- 
sonage ; — '  It  was  observable  how  a  gentleman  of  good  habit 
Bitting  just  before  us,  eating  of  some  fruit  in  the  midst  of  the 
play,  did  drop  down  as  dead,  being  choked ;  but  with  much  art 
Orange  Mai  did  thrust  her  finger  down  his  throat,  and  brought 
him  to  life  again.'  In  another  place  Pepys  speaks  of  Sir  W.  Penn 
and  himself  having  a  long  talk  with  '  Orange  Mai.'   A  dramatic 


THE  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  CONCLUDED.  121 

liberty  has  been  taken  with  the  lady's  name,  Moll  being  thought 
more  euphonic  than  '  Mai'  or  '  Matilda.'  The  incident  of  a  kii;g 
supping  at  a  tavern  with  Nell,  and  finding  himself  without 
money  to  defray  the  bill,  is  variously  related  in  the  Chroniquts 
Scandalemes  of  his  'merry'  selfish  days." 

This  explanation  was  dated  from  Little  Chelsea. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

EARLY    CONTRIBUTIONS    TO    PERIODICALS. 

Douglas  Jerrold  had  sympathies  in  no  degree  connected 
with  the  theatre.  Indeed,  his  most  passionate  love  was 
wide  away  from  the  footlights,  especially  from  the  footlights 
that  shone  upon  lions  in  Drury  Lane — upon  pig-dramas  over 
the  water.  The  most  diligent  reader  of  Shakspeare,  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  Farquhar,  of 
Marlowe  * — his  mind  full  of  the  glorious  time  for  the  stage 

*  A  writer,  judging  these  pages  in  Titan  (July,  1S59),  wrote  of  my 
father,  "He  had  no  learning,  not  very  mu1  h  imagination  or  poetry,  and 
little  power  of  philosophical  thought."  In  English  literature — in  all  that 
is  noblest  in  it — he  was  an  accomplished  scholar.  And  he  had  read  not 
only  the  classics  of  his  own  country.  I  take  a  note  of  his  literary  watch- 
fulness and  alertness  from  "Notes  and  Queries,"  April  19,  1851  : — 

"AFTER  ME  THE  DELUGE." 

If  stolen  wisdom  could  be  returned  to  its  rightful  authors,  great, 
indeed  would  be  the  transfer  of  property.  Prince  Metternich  is  said  to  be 
the  sayer  of  "After  me  the  Deluge."  And  yet  the  Prince  took  the  saying 
from  the  mouth  of  Madame  Pompadour ;  and  sbe  took  it — from  whom  ? 
It  may  be  reasonably  doubted  that  her  brain  originated  it ;  for  it  was  not 
an  order  of  brain  that  packs  wisdom  in  few  syllables. 

"  '  After  me  the  Deluge,'  said  Prince  Metternich  ;  a  fine  saying,  but  a 
false  prophecy,  we  trust." 

I  quote  this  from  an  admirable  paper  in  the  Times  of  to-day  (April  10) 
o:i  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  quote  the  subscribed  form  from  an  Essai  sur 
la  Marquise  de  Pompadour,  prefixed  to  the  Memoires  de  Madame  cle 
Hausset,  Femme  de  Chambre  de  Madame  Pompadour,  in  Barriere's 
Bibliotheque  des  Memoires : — 

"Madame  de  Pompadour,  dans  l'ivresse  de  la  prosperite,  repondit  a 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  123 

■when  David  Garrick  was  at  Drury  Lane,  and  Kitty  Clive's 
clear  laugh  rang  through  the  house  ;  when  "  fair  Abington, 
with  her  sweet,  liquid  voice  and  dove-like  looks  ;  and  charm- 
ing Mrs.  Barry;  and  kind,  womanly  Pritchard"  were  there 
— could  not  but  curl  his  lip  as  he  saw  Ducrow  drill  his 
Majesty's  servants.  In  his  dramas  he  had  endeavoured 
often  to  set  before  the  world  the  heroism  of  the  poor — to 
show  that,  as  he  expressed  it,  "there  is  goodness,  like  wild 
honey,  hived  in  strange  nooks  and  corners  of  the  earth  " — a 
sentiment,  by  the  way,  which  Mr.  Henry  Mayhew  adopted 
upon  the  title-page  of  his  "  London  Labour  and  the  London 
Poor."  He  sought,  also,  other  media  than  the  boards,  by 
which  he  might  express  his  strong  sympathies  to  the  world. 
And  they  were  opened  to  him,  as  to  all  young  men,  very 
carefully,  very  slowly.  Chiefly,  for  many  years — certainly 
until  1830 — his  contributions  to  the  periodicals  of  the  time 
were  confined  to  those  of  minor  importance.  No  brilliant 
staff  had  literature  been  to  him  up  to  this  time.  It  required 
still  long,  long  days  and  nights  of  solitary  thinking  and 
working  ;  of  incessant  reading  and  incessant  study — morn- 
ings given  to  Italian — and  even  some  few  leisure  hours  to 
German,  that  Jean  Paul  might  be  read  in  his  native  lan- 
guage— to  make  way  still  against  the  adverse  circumstances 
of  boyhood.  But  in  1831  came  better  fortune  and  a  wider 
publicity.  My  father  was  already  a  writer  in  the  Month/// 
iiie. 
M  r.  Wakley  established  the  Ballot  newspaper,  and  gave 
the  sub-editorship  thereof,  with  the  reviews  and  dramatic 
criticisms,  to  the  young  playwright.     For  the  dramatist  was 

tuu tea  lea  menace8  de  l'avenir  par  ces  trois  (quatres)  mots,  '  Apres  nous 
le  Deluge,'  qu'elle  repetait  suuvent." 

In    this  case,    "Pompadour  v.  Metternich,"  surely  a  verdict   must  be 
returned  for  the  lady,  unless  Voltaire  puts  in  a  future  claim. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 
West  Lodge,  Putney  Common. 


124  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

enthusiastically  on  the  Liberal  side.  Back  to  the  early 
days  when,  with  Laman  Blanchard,  he  was  ready  to  embark 
as  a  volunteer  under  Lord  Byron,  he  could  look,  and  see  that 
he  had,  so  far  as  he  had  been  able,  spoken  ever  vehemently 
for  the  people,  and  for  the  people's  rights,  at  a  time  when 
the  Liberal  cause  was  the  low,  and  vulgar,  and  unpopular 
cause  ;  when  the  flunkey  Giflbrd  hurled  his  poor  thunder  at 
Keats,  because  Keats  had  been  praised  in  the  liberal 
Examiner ;  and  when  writers  with  any  power  were  sorely 
tempted  to  take  the  more  lucrative  side  of  Toryism.  The 
Quarterly  editor  might  "  fly-blow  an  author's  style,"  as 
Hazlitt  felicitously  expressed  it ;  but  there  were  men  abroad 
then  who  would  not  have  been  moved  one  inch  from  their 
settled  purpose,  had  the  Lord  Chamberlain  offered  them 
Gifford's  court  livery,  and  ten  times  Gifford's  wage.  It  is 
fortunate  for  the  countiy  that  it  was  so.  These  men  were 
bound  to  Reform — to  a  large  and  sweeping  measure  that 
should  purge  the  House  of  Commons  of  its  rottenness,  and 
reflect,  with  a  nearer  approach  to  truth,  the  wants  and 
wishes  of  his  Majesty's  subjects.  The  time  for  wholesale 
press  prosecutions — for  protecting  the  obesity  of  royalty 
from  observation  by  the  threat  of  Newgate — was  passing 
away.  Even  Cobbett's  violent  tirades  could  not  provoke  a 
jury  to  convict. 

With  the  advent  of  William  IV.  to  the  throne  came  new 
and  bright  hopes  to  the  Liberal  party.  Nor  in  England 
alone  did  Liberty  wear,  in  these  days,  her  holiday  colours. 
Leopold  entered  Brussels,  sworn  to  defend  the  freedom  of 
his  little  kingdom  ;  and  here  was  established  a  new  constitu- 
tional monarchy,  based  on  principles  as  liberal  as  those  which 
then  governed  the  councils  of  France.  But  there  were  dark 
clouds  in  the  East.  The  Russians  fell  upon  Warsaw,  and 
we  looked  on  with  a  base  calmness.  General  Torrijos'  expe- 
dition to  Spain  was  fruitless,  save  in  the  blood  of  the  noble 
fellows  who  joined  it  ;  and  Sterling,  who  watched  the  scheme 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  PERIODICALS.  125 

with  strained  eyes  from  England,  on  that  4th  of  December, 
1831,  saw  a  cloud  come  upon  him  that  never  after  had  a 
silver  lining  for  his  unhappy  sight. 

But  in  England,  under  Grey  and  Russell,  the  battle  of 
Reform  speeds  hopefully.  Anarchy,  ruin,  toppled  thrones, 
and  triumphant  rabbles  make  up  the  ghastly  visions  with 
which  the  supporters  of  Lord  Wharncliffe  and  his  party 
endeavour  to  frighten  timid  people.  But  the  Reform  must 
come,  clearly  enough — must,  as  the  tide  must  rise  and  ebb 
daily  at  London  Bridge. 

It  was  in  the  very  heat  of  this  struggle,  while  riots  were 
the  answers  of  the  great  towns  to  the  obstinacy  of  the  House 
of  Lords,  that  Douglas  Jerrold's  name  appeared  among  the 
contributors  to  the  Liberal  Ballot.  His  contributions  were 
confined  chiefly  to  reviews  of  books,  and  to  criticisms  on  the 
theatres ;  but  here  and  there  his  passionate  political  creed 
burst  out  in  words  of  fire.  He  wrote  also  a  violent  political 
pamphlet  that  was  suppressed,  and  of  which  I  have  not  been 
able  to  obtain  a  copy.  He  must  speak  in  this  time  of  battle, 
and  that  fiercely. 

Not  only  in  the  Ballot  did  he  find  vent  for  his  opinions. 
A  vehicle  that  for  the  moment  seemed  suited  to  his  genius, 
to  some  extent,  suddenly  presented  itself  to  him.  On  the 
14th  of  January,  1832,  Punch  in  London,  price  one  penny, 
was  started  ;  and  in  the  first  number  may  be  most  legibly 
traced  the  pen  that  afterwards  indited,  in  the  great  Punch  of 
the  present  time,  "  The  Q.  Letters ''  and  the  "  Story  of  a 
Feather." 

"  Has  any  one  seen  more  of  the  world  than  Punch  ?  "  asks 
the  Punch  in  London  of  1832,  in  his  address  to  his  readers. 
"Has  any  one  mixed  in  better  society,  or  had  more  ad- 
mirers ?  Is  it  not  upon  record  that  my  trumpet,  sounded 
in  the  streets  of  Rotterdam,  was  a  signal  for  the  great  Bayle 
to  leave  his  labours,  and  to  come  and  smooth  the  wrinkles  of 
study  with  laughter  at  my  merriment  ?  "     Then  again  : — 


12G  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

"  Is  it  not  evident  that  Punch  possesses,  above  all  personages, 
the  amplest  means  of  becoming  '  the  best  public  instructor  ?  ' 
Think  of  his  ability,  his  universality !  The  Gascon  boasted  tha* 
in  his  castle  there  were  so  many  general's  batons  that  they  were 
used  for  common  firewood.  Now,  I  may  say  truly,  and  without 
boasting,  I  have  sufficiency  of  unpublished  royal  correspondence 
to  paper  the  walls  of  one-half  the-  dwelling-houses  of  this 
metropolis.  This,  on  a  moment's  consideration,  will  not  be 
marvelled  at.  It  is  evident  that  nearly  every  monarch  has 
large  dealings  with  Punch.  I  shall,  in  some  future  number, 
publish  some  letters  of  my  brother  Miguel — they  are  writ- 
ten in  the  prepared  skins  of  Liberals  with  their  own  blood 
(Mig.  has  always  a  fresh  supply),  and  will  be  found  of  the 
deepest  interest.  Besides  these,  I  have  some  curious  papers 
relative  to  the  Polish  campaign,  as  I,  Punch,  under  the  name  of 
Glory,  (with  what  fine  names  I  have  tricked  mankind  to  be  sure !) 
ted  on  the  Russians  to  cut  the  first  throat  they  could  reach.  It 
was  Punch  who,  a  few  days  since,  joined  with  Nicholas  in  the 
Te  Deurn  celebrated  at  St.  Petersburg  in  favour  of  murder ! " 

Then  Punch  wanders  off  to  the  impending  creation  of 
peers,  and  waggishly  suggests  a  few  to  the  government.  Mr. 
Ducrow  should  be  raised  to  the  dignity  of  Baron  Mazeppa ; 
the  Bev.  Edward  Irving  should  be  a  baron,  inasmuch  as  he 
might  address  the  Woolsack  in  the  Unknown  Tongue,  and 
thereby  bother  the  reporters.  This  would  be  an  indirect 
triumph  over  the  Press.  Messrs.  Day  and  Martin  might 
figure  as  the  Princes  of  Light  and  Darkness ;  Mr.  Grimaldi 
as  the  Earl  of  Tippetywitchett. 

But  Punch  in  London  lived  only  a  few  weeks  ;  and  I  have 
not  traced  my  father's  hand  in  it  beyond  the  second  number. 
Other  and  more  congenial  work  awaited  him.  The  Ballot 
was  merged  into  the  Examiner,  and  with  it  went  Douglas 
Jerrold,  for  a  short  time,  to  sub-edit  under  Mr.  Albany 
Fonblanque.  But  as  he  progressed  he  threw  out  rapid, 
brilliant,  poetic  papers  here  and  there,  almost  careless  of 
their  whereabouts.  The  Athenceum  also  welcomed  him  to 
its  office  about  this  time  as  a  brilliant  original  essayist.     He 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  12  7 

■was  at  length  fairly  acknowledged,  if  not  yet  by  the  great 
English  public,  at  least  by  many  men  in  the  literary  •world, 
who  had  the  power  to  be  of  service  to  him.  For  he  was 
known  personally  far  and  wide.  His  sharp  sayings,  care- 
lessly cast  at  high  and  low,  began  to  circulate  about  London. 
Hundreds  of  men  who  had  never  read  a  line  that  he  had 
written,  knew  his  name  as  connected  with  some  flash  of  wTit, 
some  happy  epithet,  some  biting  jest.  Of  a  large  circle  of 
very  happy  friends,  he  was  the  soul  and  centre.  They  had 
been  together  for  years,  and  were  mostly  working  their  way 
prosperously.  Together  the  cares  of  life  were  often  exchanged, 
on  bright  days,  for  rowing  parties  to  Richmond,  or  walks  to 
Highgate  or  Hampstead.  One  of  these  water  parties  had 
nearly  proved  fatal  to  my  father. 

Off  the  Swan  at  Battersea  some  mismanagement  of  the 
boat  occurred,  during  which  my  father  fell  backwards  into 
the  water.  He  was  taken  into  the  boat  with  much  difficulty, 
conveyed  ashore,  and  put  to  bed  in  the  Swan  Inn,  where 
he  was  left.  On  the  following  day  he  joined  his  friends  to 
laugh  over  the  accident.  He  repeated  a  conversation  he  had 
had  with  the  Swan  chambermaid  : — 

Jerrold.  "  I  suppose  these  accidents  happen  frequently  off 
here." 

/Servant.  "0  yes,  sir,  frequently;  but  it's  not  the  season 
yet." 

Jerrold  (surveying  himself).  "  Ah !  I  suppose  it's  all 
owing  to  a  backward  spring  !  " 

Servant  (sharply).   "  That's  it,  sir." 

Still  his  most  active  time  as  a  journalist  had  not  come 
yet.  The  periodicals  by  which  his  name  was  to  become  a 
household  word,  were  not  created.  Snugly  housed,  how- 
ever,  and  with  his  books  about  him,  and  friends  to  be  merry 
with,  he  could  afford  to  wait — he  who  was  hardly  in  his 
thirtieth  your  !  With  here  a  short  paper,  and  there  a  poem  ; 
with  dramas  incessantly  appearing,  he  could  bridge  over  the 


128  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

time  that  yet  lay  before  him  and  the  just  recognition  which 
he  had  determined  to  snatch  from  the  world.  For  he  always 
felt  that  he  had  snatched  his  reputation  from  the  public. 
He  always  bore  about  him  the  firm  belief  that  he  had  been 
fighting  throughout  his  life  under  the  most  galling  disad- 
vantages of  fortune,  and  that  with  his  own  vehement  soul — 
his  iron  courage — he  had  cut  his  way  to  success.  Once  fairly 
recognised,  and  he  put  aside  the  honours  of  the  victory  with 
most  unaffected  simplicity.  Mr.  Hannay,  whom  I  have 
already  quoted  from  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  said  justly  : — 
"  His  fight  for  fame  was  long  and  hard ;  and  his  life  was 
interrupted,  like  that  of  other  men,  by  sickness  and  pain. 
In  the  stoop  in  his  gait,  in  the  lines  in  his  face,  you  saw  the 
man  who  had  reached  his  Ithaca  by  no  mere  yachting  over 
summer  seas.  And  hence,  no  doubt,  the  utter  absence  in 
him  of  all  that  conventionalism  which  marks  the  man  of 
quiet  experience  and  habitual  conformity  to  the  world.  In 
the  streets  a  stranger  would  have  kuown  Jerrold  to  be  a 
remarkable  man  ;  you  would  have  gone  away  speculating  on 
him.  In  talk  he  was  still  Jerrold;  not  Douglas  Jerrold,  Esq.,  a 
successful  gentleman,  whose  heart  and  soul  you  were  expected 
to  know  nothing  about,  and  with  whom  you  were  to  eat  your 
dinner  peaceably,  like  any  common  man.  No  ;  he  was  at  all 
times  Douglas  the  peculiar  and  unique — with  his  history  in 
his  face,  and  his  genius  on  his  tongue — nay,  and  after  a  little, 
with  his  heart  on  his  sleeve.  This  made  him  piquant ;  and 
the  same  character  makes  his  writings  piquant.  Hence,  too, 
he  is  often  quaint — a  word  which  describes  what  no  other 
word  does,  always  conveying  a  sense  of  originality,  and  of 
what,  when  we  wish  to  be  condemnatory,  we  call  egotism, 
but  which,  when  it  belongs  to  genius,  is  delightful.  *  *• 
He  united  remarkably  simplicity  of  character  with  brilliancy 
of  talk.  For  instance,  with  all  his  success,  he  never  sought 
higher  society  than  that  which  he  found  himself  gi-adually 
and  by  a  natural  momentum  borne  into,  as  he  advanced. 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  PERIODICALS.  120 

He  never  suppressed  a  flash  of  indignant  sarcasm  for  fear  of 
startling  the  '  genteel '  classes  and  Mrs.  Grundy.  He  never 
aped  aristocracy  in  his  household.  He  would  go  to  a  tavern 
for  his  oysters  and  a  glass  of  punch,  as  simply  as  they  did  in 
Ben  Jonson's  days ;  and  I  have  heard  of  his  doing  so  from  a 
sensation  of  boredom  at  a  very  great  house  indeed — a  house 
for  the  sake  of  an  admission  to  which  half  Bayswater  would  sell 
their  grandmother's  bones  to  a  surgeon.  This  kind  of  thing 
stamped  him,  in  our  polite  days,  as  one  of  the  old  school, 
and  was  exceedingly  refreshing  to  observe,  in  an  age  when 
the  anxious  endeavour  of  the  English  middle  classes  is  to 
hide  their  plebeian  origin  under  a  mockery  of  patrician 
elegance.  He  had  none  of  the  airs  of  success  or  reputation— 
none  of  the  affectations,  either  personal  or  social,  which  are 
rife  everywhere.  He  was  manly  and  natural — free  and  off- 
handed to  the  verge  of  eccentricity.  Independence  and 
marked  character  seemed  to  breathe  from  the  little,  rather 
bowed  figure,  crowned  with  a  lion-like  head  and  falling  light 
hair — to  glow  in  the  keen,  eager,  blue  eyes  glancing  on 
either  side  as  he  walked  along.  Nothing  could  be  less 
common-place,  nothing  less  conventional,  than  his  appearance 
in  a  room  or  in  the  streets." 

This  is  a  true  picture,  most  daintily  drawn. 

In  the  years  1831-2,  however,  with  which  we  are  dealing, 
Douglas  Jerrold  had  neither  fame,  nor  access  to  the  houses 
of  the  "  higher"  classes.  He  moved  simply  and  contentedly 
in  the  midst  of  men  who  were  pursuing  the  same  noble 
calling  as  that  to  which  he  was  heart  and  soul  devoted  ;  he 
wrote  where  he  could  find  room,  and  still,  with  a  giant's 
strength,  held  on  to  the  goal  he  had  appointed  to  reach. 
To  speak  that  which  was  within  him  he  must  have  better 
platforms  than  he  had  yet  trodden — and  better  platforms  he 
would  have.  Not  by  supplications  offered  to  weighty  pub- 
lishers; not  by  attendance  danced  at  editors'  doorways,  but 
by  a  noble  means — that  of  being  heard  and  appreciated  in 


130  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

high  places  from  the  platform  where  he  stood.  His  platform 
just  now  was  the  Monthly  Magazine.  Here  he  wrote  "  The 
Tutor  Fiend  and  his  Three  Pupils"  (September,  1831). 
This  is  the  story  of  three  sons,  whose  father  wants  them  to 
get  on.  And  the  upshot  : — "  These  are  the  deaths  of  the 
three  pupils  of  Rapax.  One  was  gibbeted — the  other  mur- 
dered by  his  fellow- — the  third  fractured  Ins  own  skull 
against  the  barrier  of  his  wealth.  They  all  got  on  in  the 
world."  Other  ai-ticles  published  about  this  time  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine  were  : — "  Pope  Gregory  and  the  Pear 
Tree"  (October,  1831)  ;  "  Pigs — addressed  to  those  about  to 
leave  Business"  (April,  1832);  "The  Little  Great,  and  the 
Great  Little,"  apropos  of  the  industrious  fleas,  in  which  men 
are  whimsically  mistaken  for  fleas,  and  fleas  for  men  (May, 
1832);  "The  Rights  of  Dramatists  "  (May,  1832);  "Swamp 
Hall "  (September,  1832),  &c.  But  ever,  as  he  moved  a  yard 
ahead,  he  was  drawn  back  a  foot.  Friends  worked  upon  the 
tender  heart  that  was  behind  that  stern  voice,  those  cutting 
words — worked  upon  it  to  prey,  and  largely,  upon  his  narrow 
means. 

In  those  days,  had  he,  so  courageous  in  his  own  fight  with 
the  world,  possessed  the  bravery  to  steel  his  heart  once  or 
twice,  and  hiss  a  decided  NO,  he  had  been  a  happier  man 
during  many  years  of  his  life.  But  it  is  his  faith  to  believe 
to  the  last,  in  friends.  Once  or  twice  he  says  "  yes  " — writes 
all  that  "  yes  "  implies  :  his  friends  have  his  bond — and  he 
some  years  of  hard  struggling  before  him.  The  youth  that 
was  passed  in  cutting  through  misfortune  by  the  strength  of 
his  own  unaided  genius,  has  given  way  to  a  manhood  fet- 
tered for  some  years  by  the  treachery  or  the  misfortune  of 
friends.  Still,  in  the  depths  of  his  trouble,  he  has  a  pleasant, 
cheering  word  for  any  man  who  may  pass  his  ever  open 
door.  Still,  let  a  dear  friend  ask  his  aid  to-morrow,  and  his 
hand  shall  be  open  and  welcome.  It  is  his  religion,  and  he 
cannot  wander  from   it.     He  may  say  a  savage,   a  galling, 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  131 

thing  to  that  friend  to-day ;  but  he  will  be  closer  than  any- 
body else  at  his  elbow  to-morrow,  should  the  friend  need 
assistance.  The  difficulties  cast  upon  him  by  his  good 
nature,  by  his  chivalrous  sense  of  friendship,  however,  bear 
down  heavily  upon  him  in  his  little  house  in  Thistle  Grove, 
Chelsea.  It  is  deep  winter.  The  wind  shrieks  down  the 
grove,  and  the  snow  lies  thick,  muffling  every  foot  upon  the 
doorstep.  It  is  not  an  inviting  night  to  go  forth — rather 
one  to  gather  about  the  fire,  and  talk  of  the  coming  spring. 
But  forth  must  go  the  brave  man,  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
for  a  time,  to  Paris.  And  as  he  leaves  his  home,  he  has  a 
warm  shake  of  the  hand — ay,  for  the  friend  whose  delin- 
quency sends  him  forth.  The  present  writer  has  a  vivid 
recollection  of  that  night,  as  of  the  dreary  days  of  loneliness 
in  the  house  that  followed  it. 

As  bitter  was  the  time  (1S35)  to  the  dear  ones  iu  Paris. 
It  was  a  terrible  winter,  and  the  comforts  of  an  English 
home  could  not  be  had.  Day  after  day  was  that  curious 
knowledge  sought  which  comes  only  by  degrees,  viz.,  how  to 
keep  up  a  wood  fire.  Still,  half  benumbed,  the  writer  was 
soon  at  his  books  and  pen  again.  Doves  in  a  Cage  and  The 
Schoolfellows  were  written  in  Paris  ;  and  hence  were  sent 
many  contributions — light,  philosophic  tapestry  work,  full  of 
quaint  colour ;  slight  stories ;  even  poems  (the  "  Roeking- 
Horse,"  for  instance — the  idea  taken  from  his  little  girl, 
who  so  called  the  Pegasus  at  the  entrance  to  the  Tuileries 
Gardens).  Many  of  the  papers  now  well  known  under  the 
collective  title  of  "  Cakes  and  Ale,"  owre  their  origin  to  the 
solitude  of  that  bleak  winter  in  Paris.  Communications 
with  Blackwood's  Magazine  were  opened.  Early  in  the  year, 
unknown  personally  to  the  editor,  and  with  many  mis- 
givings on  the  success  of  the  application,  Douglas  Jerrold 
forwarded  "  Silas  Fleshpots,  a  Respectable  Man,"  to  Edin- 
burgh, lilnckwooil's  Mogndne  for  April,  1835,  contained  the 
paper.    The  success  was  rapidly  followed  up  ;  for  the  number 

K    2 


L32  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

for  May  included  "  Michael  Lynx,  the  Man  who  knew  Him- 
self ; "  that  for  June,  "  An  Old  House  in  the  City  ; "  and 
that  for  October,  "Matthew  Clear."  "Barnaby  Palms," 
"  Job  Pippins,"  and  "  Isaac  Cheek,"  appeared  in  Blackwood 
in  the  course  of  1836.  The  reader  will  recognise,  in  some  of 
these  titles,  heads  of  chapters  in  "  Men  of  Character." 

The  solitude  of  Paris  was  not,  however,  complete  ;  for  Mr. 
Thackeray,  Mr.  Henry  Mayhew,  and  Barnett,  the  composer 
of  the  "  Mountain  Sylph,"  were  there,  and  contributed,  as 
it  may  be  supposed,  very  largely  to  the  comfort  of  this  short 
exile. 

The  magazine  which  now  began  to  receive  papers  by 
Douglas  Jerrold  and  by  Henry  Brownrigg,  his  occasional 
■uom  de  plume,  was  the  New  Monthly.  He  also  wrote,  from 
time  to  time,  for  the  Freemason's  Quarterly  Review,  and  for 
the  Annuals.  "  The  Children  in  the  Tower,"  a  poem  ;  "  The 
Siege,"  a  short  tragic  story,  most  powerfully  and  pathetically 
told  ;  "  The  Actress  at  the  Duke's,"  &c,  were  amono-  mv 
father's  contributions  to  the  Forget- Me- Not.  In  the  Freemason  s 
Quarterly  appeared  "  The  Tapestry  Weaver  of  Beauvais " 
(July,  1834) ;  "  Solomon's  Ape,  by  Brother  Douglas  Jerrold  " 
(December,  1834)  ;  "The  Lamp-Post;  a  Household  Anecdote" 
(March,  1835);  "  Shakspeare  at  Charlcote  Park  "  (December, 
1835);  "The  Old  Boatman"  (September,  1836);  "The 
Peacock;  a  Household  Incident"  (June,  1837);  "The 
Emperor  and  the  Locusts"  (December,  1837);  "The  Major 
in  the  Black  Hole  "  (June,  1838),  &c.  The  New  Monthly 
received  "The  Lord  of  Peiresc  "  (October,  1837);  "Recol- 
lections of  Guy  Fawkes"  (October,  1837);  "Midnight  at 
Madame  T.'s"  (1837);  "The  Genteel  Pigeons"  (March, 
1838);  "Papers  of  a  Gentleman-at-Arms "  (1838);  "Ro- 
mance of  a  Keyhole"  (April,  1838) ;  "My  Husband's  Win- 
nings; a  Household  Incident"  (June,  1838);  "The  Lesson 
of  Life  "  (July,  August,  September,  October,  &c,  1838)  : 
"  The  Rocking-Horse  "  (October,  1838);  "Some  Account  of 


EARLY   CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  133 

a  Stage  Devil"  (October,  1838):  "Baron  Von  Boots:  a 
Tale  of  Blood  "  (November,  1838)  j  "  The  True  History  of  a 
Great  Pacificator  "  (January,  1839)  j  "The  Manager's  Pig  " 
(March,  1839);  "The  Mayor  of  Hole-Cum-Corner  "  (April, 
1839) ;  "  Shakspeare's  Crab  Tree  "  (May,  1839) ;  "  The  Meta- 
physician and  the  Maid  "  (May,  1839),  &c. 

These  are  stories  chiefly,  with  silken  threads  of  philosophy 
worked  gracefully  through  them.  It  would  be  incorrect, 
perhaps,  to  call  them  political  tales  ;  yet  they  often  bear  a 
clear  relation  to  social  politics.  As  an  example  let  me  direct 
the  reader's  atteution  to  this  conference  between  the  Paris 
hangman  and  priest,  whose  business  it  was  to  give  the  con- 
demned a  final  benediction.  The  passage  occurs  in  "  The 
Lesson  of  Life." 

" '  Thou  hast  called  death  a  punishment,  most  holy  father  ;  let 
us  debate  that  simple  point ; '  and  Jacques  sidled  still  closer  to 
his  reverend  guest. 

' '  The  declining  sun  shone  through  the  casement,  and,  falling 
upon  the  heads  of  the  executioner  and  the  monk,  bent  as  they 
were  towards  each  other,  presented  a  strange  and  a  striking 
contrast  of  character,  as  developed  in  their  features.  The 
monk's  face  was  long  and  sallow,  marked  with  deep  lines  about 
the  mouth,  which  seemed  restless  with  ill-concealed  passions  ; 
his  eye  was  black,  full,  and  heavy — a  joyless,  unreposing  eye. 
The  countenance  of  Jacques  Tenebrse  was  round  and  somewhat 
jovial ;  a  love  of  mirth  appeared  to  twinkle  in  his  look,  and  his 
lips  seemed  made  for  laughter  ;  his  black  hair  and  beard  were 
sprinkled  with  white;  and  his  complexion  was  a  clear,  deep 
n,  ilu>hed  in  the  cheek  with  wholesome  red.  The  sun, 
-hining  upon  these  heads,  brought  out  their  opposite  characters 
in  the  strongest  relief  to  each  other.  A  stranger,  looking  at 
them  from  a  distance,  would  have  thought  the  hangman  some 
humble,  yet  wealthy,  good-tempered  citizen  of  Paris,  consulting 
with  his  household  adviser  on  a  daughter's  portion,  a  son's 
patrimony,  or  some  other  domestic  arrangement.  Very  different 
was  tli"  .subject  which  at  that  hour  supplied  the  discoun 
Jacques  the  hangman  of  Paris,  and  bather  Geo 

austere  <  lapuchin. 


184  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERPtOLD. 

'"Thou  dost  call  death  a  punishment,'  repeated  the  execu- 
tioner. '  I  live  by  it,  and  should,  therefore,  with  the  wisdom  of 
this  world ' 

"'  The  wisdom  of  this  world  is  arrant  folly,'  interrupted  the 
Capuchin. 

"*I  am  of  thy  ghostly  opinion,'  observed  Jacques  Tenebrse, 
'as  to  a  good  deal  of  it.  Yet,  death  being  made  a  punishment, 
makes  my  profession  ;  and  my  profession — I  speak  this  to  thee 
in  private  and  as  a  friend— my  profession  is  little  less  than  an 
arrant  folly,  a  mistake,  a  miserable  blunder.' 

"  '  The  saints  protect  me  !  What  meanest  thou  by  such  wild 
discourse  ? '  inquired  Father  George. 

"  '  Ilear  me  out;  listen  to  the  hangman!'  cried  Jacques 
Tenebrse.    '  There  is  another  world,  eh,  good  Father  George  ?' 

"  The  Capuchin  moved  suddenly  from  the  side  of  the  querist, 
and  surveyed  him  with  a  look  of  horror. 

'"Nay,  nay,  answer  me,'  said  Jacques,  'but  for  the  form  of 
argument.   'Twas  for  that  I  put  the  question.' 

'"'Tis  scarcely  lawful  even  so  to  put  it,'  said  the  monk. 
'  However,  let  it  be  granted  there  is  another  world.' 

' ' '  And  all  men  must  die  ? '  asked  Jacques  Tenebrse.  '  Eh,  is 
it  not  so?' 

" '  We  come  into  the  world  doomed  to  the  penalty,'  replied  the 
Capuchin.     '  Death  is  the  common  lot  of  all.' 

"'Of  the  good,  and  the  wise,  and  the  unwise,  eh,  father?' 
cried  Jacques. 

" '  'Tis  very  certain,'  answered  the  monk. 

"  'If  such,  then,  be  the  case,'  said  Tenebrse,  'if  no  virtue,  no 
goodness,  no  wisdom,  no  strength  can  escape  death — if  death  be 
made,  as  you  say,  the  penalty  of  the  good,  why  should  it  be 
1  bought  the  punishment  of  the  wicked  ?  Why  should  that  be 
thought  the  only  doom  for  the  blackest  guilt  which,  it  may  be  at 
the  very  same  hour,  the  brightest  virtue  is  condemned  to  suffer? 
Answer  me  that,'  cried  the  hangman. 

'"'Tis  a  point  above  thy  apprehension,  Jacques  Tenebrse,' 
replied  Father  George,  apparently  desirous  of  changing  the  dis- 
course.    '  Let  it  rest,  Jacques,  for  abler  wits  than  thine.' 

"  '  You  would  not  kill  a  culprit's  soul,  Father  George  ?'  asked 
Jacques,  heedless  of  the  wishes  of  the  Capuchin. 

' ' '  What  horror  dost  thou  talk  ! '  exclaimed  the  monk. 

"  '  But  for  argument,'  said  the  unmoved  Jacques.  '  Nay,  I  am 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  PERIODICALS.  135 

sure  thou  wouldst  not.  I  have  heard  thee  talk  such  consolation 
to  a  culprit  that,  at  the  time,  I  have  thought  it  a  blessed  thing 
to  die.  "Well,  he  died,  and  the  laws,  as  the  cant  runs,  were 
avenged.  The  repentant  thief,  the  penitent  blood-shedder  was 
dismissed  from  the  further  rule  of  man.  Perhaps,  the  very  day 
he  was  punished,   a  hundred  pious,  worthy  souls  were  called 

from  the  world.     He  was  discharged  from  the  earth  and 

But  thou  knowest  what  thou  hast  twenty  times  promised  such 
misdoers,  when  I — I  should  have  done  my  office  on  them.' 

'"Thou  art  ignorant,  Jacques  Tenebrse,  basely  ignorant. 
Thou  art  so  familiarised  with  death,  it  has  lost  its  terrors  to 
thee,'  said  the  Capuchin,  who  again  strove  to  shift  the  discourse- 

'"Of  that  anon,  Father  George.  As  for  death  on  the  scaffold, 
'tis  nothing ;  but  I  have  seen  the  death  of  a  good  man  in  his 
Christian  bed,'  said  Jacques,  '  and  that  was  awful.' 

' ; '  Thou  dost  own  as  much  ? '  observed  Father  George  ;  '  thou 
d<  ist  confess  it  F ' 

"  '  Awful,  yet  cheering  ;  and  'twas  whilst  I  beheld  it  that  the 
thought  came  to  me  of  my  own  worthlessness ' 

"  '  As  a  sinner  ? '  interrupted  the  Capuchin. 

"  '  And  hangman,'  cried  Jacques.  '  I  thought  it  took  from  the 
holiness — the  beauty,  if  I  may  say  it — of  the  good  man's  fate — 
the  common  fate,  as  you  rightly  call  it,  father — to  give  death  to 
the  villain — to  make  it  the  last  punishment,  by  casting  him  at 
one  fling  from  the  same  world  with  the  pious,  worthy  creature 
who  died  yesterday.  Now  the  law  would  not,  could  not  if  it 
would,  kill  the  soul,  and — but  thou  knowest  what  passes 
between  thy  brotherhood  and  the  condemned,  thou  knowest  what 
thou  dost  promise  to  the  penitent  culprit — and,  therefore  to  kill 
a  man  for  his  crimes  would  be  a  fitting,  a  reasonable  custom  if 
this  world  were  all — if  there  were  nought  beyond.  Then  see  you, 
Father  George,  thou  wouldst  hasten  the  evil  doer  into  nothing- 
;  now  dost  thou  speed  him  into  felicity.  Eh  ?  Am  I  not 
right — is  it  not  so,  holy  father?' 

"  '  And  such  is  thy  thought,  thy  true  thought  ?'  inquired  the 
( lapuchin, 

" '  I  thank  my  stars  it  is,  else  I  had  not  held  my  trade  so 
long.' 

"  '  Punishment !  Bah  !  I  call  myself  the  rogues'  chamberlain, 
taking  them  from  a  wicked  world,  and  putting  them  quietly  to 
rust.     When  he  who   sums   the  wan-ant   for   their  exit — and, 


136  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEHTtOLD. 

thinking  closely  what  we  all  are,  'tis  bold  -writing  i'  faith — must 
some  day  die  too — when  the  emiine  tippet  must,  at  some  time, 
lie  down  with  the  hempen  string — it  is,  methinks,  a  humorous 
way  of  punishment,  this  same  hanging.'" 

For  speculations — for  teachings  of  this  kind — these  stories 
were  all  written.  Now  the  lessons,  and  bright  sayings,  and 
flashing  contrasts,  were  cast  upon  a  serious  story  of  old 
Paris ;  and  now  they  were  tacked  to  the  honeymoon  of  the 
"  Genteel  Pigeons." 

The  Capuchin  describes  the  hangman's  daughter  as  "  a 
flower  springing  from  a  rock  of  flint." 

The  whimsical  legend  of  "  Hole-Cum-Corner"  illustrates 
the  falsity  of  living  for  appearances.*  "How  often" — this 
is  offered  by  way  of  moral — "  does  it  happen  that  a  man 
learns  that  he  had  a  good  name  when  he  ceases  to  possess  it  ! 
If  a  man  would  know  what  his  friends  thought  of  him,  let  it 
be  given  out  that  he  is  dead,  or  has  unfortunately  picked  a 
pocket.  Their  mute  opinion  finds  a  tongue."  The  miseries 
of  the  mayor,  who  convicts  a  rustic  for  the  crime  of  stealing 
a  gander,  on  appearances,  the  said  gander  being  found  just 
after  the  convicted  culprit  has  been  whipped,  are  given  in 
most  humorous  forms.  The  devil  tempts  the  mayor  to  buy 
a  cloak  of  "  Seeming."  "  Seeming  !  "  echoes  the  mayor. 
"  Seeming  !  "  the  fiend  retorts.  "  A  superfine  cloak,  trimmed 
with  ermine  that  shall  never  speck  ;  guarded  with  gold  that 
shall  not  tarnish — a  thing  of  such  fine,  yet  tough  web,  that 
you  shall  go  in  it  through  all  the  thorny  places  of  the  world, 
yet  shall  it  not  tear— shall  it  not  fray — a  beautiful,  yea,  a 
magnificent  cloak!"  Put  the  mayor  is  adamant,  although 
the  rustic  whom  he  wrongly  convicted  has  devoted  him  "  to 
that  arch-demon,  Appearance."  All  appearance  turns  against 
the  mayor  henceforth.     Sagacious  dog  that  he  is,  and  so  hos- 

*  For  these  Essays  see  the  Collected  Edition  of  Douglas  Jerrold's 
works. 


EARLY   CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  137 

pitable — "  hardly  would  he  have  closed  his  door  against  a 
mad  dog  " — he  endeavours  to  right  himself  with  the  good 
citizens  by  giving  a  splendid  dinner  to  a  Spanish  prince,  and 
parading  his  royal  visitor  through  Hole-Curn-Corner.  "A 
most  gratifying  surprise  awaited  the  royal  guest,  for  he  was 
presented,  not  only  with  the  freedom  of  the  town,  in  a  hand- 
some pearl  box,  but  with  a  document  that  enabled  him  to 
set  up  as  dolls'-eyes  maker  in  any  part  of  England  ; "  Hole- 
Curn-Corner,  it  should  be  remarked,  being  the  seat  of  the 
dolls'-eyes  trade. 

Then  we  have  "  The  Romance  of  a  Keyhole,"  wherein  Mr. 
Jeremy  Dunbrown  figures  as  a  Bacchanalian  Jacobite  brazier, 
filling  into  misfortune  through  his  inability  to  find  the  key- 
hole of  his  own  doorway.  Jeremy  gives  up  the  search  and 
falls  upon  his  doorstep,  with  the  assertion  that  "some 
damned  thief  has  stolen  the  keyhole  ! " 

Nature,  we  are  told,  does  not  write  truth  always  in  men's 
faces  : — "We  know  the  common  story  runs  that  nature  has 
peculiar  visages  for  poets,  philosophers,  statesmen,  warriors, 
and  so  forth  :  we  do  not  believe  it.  We  have  seen  a  slack- 
wire  dancer  with  the  face  of  a  great  pious  bard  ;  a  usurer 
with  the  legendary  features  of  a  Socrates ;  a  passer  of  bad 
money  very  like  a  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  ;  and  a  carcass 
butcher  at  Whitechapel  so  resembling  Napoleon,  that  Prince 
Talleyrand,  suddenly  beholding  him,  burst  into  tears  at  the 
.-u.iilitude." 

A  sermon  on  a  hat  : — "  '  The  hat,  my  boy,'  Sampson  once 
replied  to  some  familiarity  passed  upon  his  beaver,  '  the  hat, 
whatever  it  may  be,  is  in  itself  nothing — makes  nothing, 
for  nothing;  but,  be  sure  of  it,  everything  in  life  de- 
pends upon  the  cock  of  the  hat.'  Such  was  Piebald's 
sophy,  a  school  which  we  incline  to  believe  contains 
many  disciples.  For  how  many  men — we  put  it  to  your 
own  experience,  reader — have  made  their  way  through  the 
thronging  crowds  that  beset  fortune,  not  by  the  innate  worth 


138  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERHOLD. 

and  excellence  of  their  hats,  but  simply,  as  Sampson  Piebald 
has  it,  by  '  the  cock  of  their  hats  1 '     The  cock's  all." 

Here  is  Peggy  : — "  The  face  of  Peggy  Mavis  had  been 
pronounced  by  a  city  painter  of  her  days  insipid.  The 
beauty  was  too  regular,  the  eye  too  quiet.  Very  different 
had  Guido  Blot  judged  of  the  maiden  had  he  seen  her  as, 
placing  the  candle  (considering  that  we  write  a  romance,  we 
ought,  perhaps,  to  say  taper)  upon  the  table,  she  held  forth 
her  pretty  hand — a  hand  worthy  to  give  away  her  heart — 
towards  Valentine.  Her  face  was  pale  as  that  of  the  holiest 
nun  ;  her  bright  grey  eye  made  brighter  with  tears ;  her 
soft,  pulpy  under  lip  a  little  parted  from  its  fellow  ;  her 
brown,  silken  hair  flung  off  her  beating  temples,  waving  down 
her  neck,  and  her  bosom  panting  like  a  caught  dove,  beneath 
her  bodice." 

The  story  of  "Mr.  Peppercorn  'at  Home'''  describes  a 
miser.  The  rookery— to  which  his  houses  are  reduced  by  the 
villany  of  a  lawyer — inhabited  by  a  gang  of  vagabonds,  is 
the  chief  feature  of  the  paper.  Mr.  Peppercorn,  arrived  in 
London,  determines  to  sleep  in  one  of  his  own  empty  houses 
rather  than  spend  a  shilling  for  his  bed.  Aud  so  he  falls 
into  the  midst  of  the  gang  that  has  infested  his  dilapidated 
property. 

The  story  of  "  The  Preacher  Parrot "  is  that  of  a  bird 
which,  having  been  long  in  an  auctioneer's  office,  has  learned 
the  slang  of  the  hammer.  To  a  girl  ogling  for  lovers  it 
cries,  "  Who  bids  1 "  While  a  dying  miser  clings  to  life,  it 
croaks,  "  Going— going  at  sixty-five."  The  first  possessor  of 
the  parrot  is  a  member  of  parliament,  whose  patriotism  will 
not  permit  him  to  take  place.  "  A7o  bidders!"  shrieks  the 
bird.  The  member  is  a  strict  utilitarian.  "  With  a  severe 
disregard  of  the  ornaments  and  what  are  called  refinements 
of  life,  he  would  have  looked  on  the  statue  of  the  Medicean 
Venus,  and  asked,  Cui  bono  ?  Or,  in  his  downright  nervous 
English,  '  What's  the  use  of  it  ?  '     He  would  have  resigned 


EARLY   CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  PERIODICALS.  133 

the  Elgin  marbles  to  the  hammers  of  MacAdam,  and  covered 
a  polling-booth  with  the  canvases  of  Raphael.  In  a  word,  he 
was  a  mushroom  patriot,  a  thing  produced  by  the  corruption 
of  the  times." 

I  pass  by  many  of  the  stories  that,  about  this  mid-period 
of  his  career,  Douglas  Jerrold  scattered  over  the  London 
periodicals.  The  simple  catalogue  of  titles  would  fill  many 
pages  of  this  volume.  He  went  himself  over  the  ground, 
and  severely  pruned  the  wild  luxuriance  of  his  intellectual 
productions  of  this  time.  The  eight  volumes  *  which,  towards 
the  close  of  his  life,  he  arranged  as  the  best  results  of  his 
literary  activity,  undoubtedly  include  his  most  perfect 
works ;  but  here  and  there  he  has  necessarily,  from  want 
of  room,  passed  over  many  papers  which  were  worth  pre- 
servation. 

In  the  year  1838,  a  selection  from  the  contributions  to 
Blackwood  and  the  New  Monthly  Magazines  was  made  and 
issued  in  three  volumes,  under  the  title  of  "  Men  of  Cha- 
racter," t  and  the  illustrations  were  by  Mr.  W.  M.  Thacke- 
ray, the  renowned  novelist.  The  "  Men  "  were  preceded 
by  a  quaint  preface. 

"John  British,  in  the  bigness  of  his  heart,  sat  with  his 
doors  open  to  all  comers,  though  we  will  not  deny  that  the  wel- 
come bestowed  upon  his  guests,  depended  not  always  so  much 
upon  their  deserving  merits,  as  upon  their  readiness  to  flatter 
their  host  in  any  of  the  thousand  whims  to  which,  since  truth 
should  be  said,  John  was  given.  Hence  a  bold,  empty-headed 
talker  would  sometimes  be  placed  on  the  right  hand  of  John — 
would  be  helped  to  the  choicest  morsels,  and  would  drink  from 
out  the  golden  goblet  of  the  host — whilst  the  meek,  wise  man 

*  Since   re-published   by  Messrs.    Bradbury,    Evans,    &    Co.,    in   four 

volumes. 

t  "  Men  of  Character"  were  translated  into  the  Russian  language  during 
the  first  year  of  the  late  war,  and  published  in  the  Contemporary,  a 
liussian  review. 


140  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

might  be  suffered  to  stare  hungrily  from  a  corner,  or  at  best 
pick  bits  and  scraps  off  a  wooden  trencher.  With  all  this,  John 
was  a  generous  fellow ;  for  no  sooner  was  he  convinced  of  the 
true  value  of  his  guest  than  he  would  hasten  to  make  profuse 
amends  for  past  neglect,  setting  the  worthy  in  the  seat  of 
honour,  and  doing  him  all  graceful  reverence.  In  his  time 
John  had  assuredly  made  grievous  blunders :  now  twitting 
him  as  a  zany  or  a  lunatic,  who,  in  after  years,  was  Jong's  best 
counsellor — his  blithe  companion  :  now  stopping  his  ears  at 
what,  in  his  rash  ignorance,  ho  called  a  silly  goose,  that  in  later 
days  became  to  John  the  sweetest  nightingale. 

"John  b as  blundered  it  is  true.  It  is  as  true  that  he  has 
rewarded  those  he  has  wronged ;  and  if — for  it  has  happened — 
the  injured  have  been  far  removed  from  the  want  of  cakes  and 
ale,  has  not  John  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  with  a  con- 
ciliatory, penitent  air  promised  a  tombstone  ?    To  our  matter : — 

"  Once  upon  a  time  two  or  three  fellows — '  Men  of  Character,' 
as  they  afterwards  dubbed  themselves — ventured  into  the  pre- 
sence of  John  British.  Of  the  merits  of  these  worthies  it  is 
not  for  us  to  speak,  being,  unhappily,  related  to  them.  That 
their  reception  was  very  far  beyond  their  deserts,  or  that  their 
effrontery  is  of  the  choicest  order,  may  be  gathered  from  this 
circumstance  :  they  now  bring  new  comers— other  'men,'  never 
before  presented  to  the  house  of  John,  and  pray  of  him  to  listen 
to  the  histories  of  the  strangers,  and  at  his  own  '  sweet  will '  to 
bid  them  pack,  or  to  entertain  them. 

"  Masters  Pippins,  Cheek,  Clear,  and  Palms  most  humbly 
beg  places  for  their  anxious  worships,  Buff,  Runnymede, 
Qitattrino,  Applejohn,  and  Trumps. 

"D.J. 

"  Haverstock  Hill,  January,  1838." 

Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  activity — in  magazines,  in 
newspapers,  and  on  the  stage — he  found  time  to  give  his 
help  with  his  pen  to  any  good  cause.  On  the  29th  of  May, 
1835,  a  performance  was  given  at  the  English  Opera  House 
in  aid  of  the  Asylum  for  aged  Freemasons  ;  and  on  this 
occasion  an  address,  "  written  for  the  occasion  by  Brother 
Douglas  Jerrold,"  was  delivered  by  Brother  John  Wilson. 
It  ran  thus  : — 


EARLY   CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  141 

"  In  types  we  speak  ;  by  tokens,  secret  ways, 
We  teach  the  wisdom  of  primeval  days. 
To-night,  'tis  true,  no  myst'ry  we  rehearse, 
Yet — hear  a  parable  in  homeliest  verse. 

A  noble  ship  lay  found'ring  in  the  main, 

The  hapless  victim  of  the  hurricane  ; 

Her  crew — her  passengers — with  savage  strife, 

Crowd  in  the  boat  that  bears  them  on  to  life  ; 

They  see  the  shore — again  they  press  the  strand — 

A  happy  spot— a  sunny,  fertile  land  ! 

But  say — have  all  escaped  the  'whelming  wave  ? 
Is  no  one  left  within  a  briny  grave  ? 

Some  few  old  men,  too  weak  to  creep  on  deck, 

Lie  in  the  ocean,  coffin' d  in  the  wreck. 

They  had  no  child  to  pluck  them  from  the  tide, 

And  so  unaided,  unremember'd,  died. 

But  orphan  babes  are  rescued  from  the  sea 

By  the  strong  arm  of  human  sympathy  ; 

For  in  their  looks — their  heart-compelling  tears — 

There  speaks  an  eloquence  denied  to  years. 

The  shipwreck'd  men,  inhabiting  an  isle 

Lovely  and  bright  with  bounteous  Nature's  smile, 

And  richly  teeming  with  her  fairest  things, 

Bipe,  luscious  fruits,  and  medicinal  springs, 

Must  yet  provide  against  the  changing  day, 

The  night's  dank  dew,  the  mountain's  scorching  ray  ; 

For  Nature  giving,  still  of  men  demands 

The  cheerful  industry  of  willing  hands. 

But  some  there  are  among  our  shipwreck'd  crowd 

Spent  of  their  strength — by  age,  by  sickness  bow'd  ; 

Forlorn  old  men  in  childhood's  second  birth, 

Poor,  broken  images  of  Adam's  earth  ! 

Of  what  avail  the  riches  'bout  them  thrown, 

If  wanting  means  to  make  one  gift  their  own  ? 

To  him  what  yields  the  juicy  fruit  sublime, 

Who  sees  the  tree,  but  needs  the  strength  to  climb  ? 

To  him  what  health  can  healing  waters  bring 

Who  palsied  lies,  and  cannot  reach  the  spring  ? 

Must  they  then  starve  with  plenty  in  their  eye  ? 

Near  health's  own  fountains  must  they  groan  and  die  ? 


142  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JEKROLD. 

Whilst  in  that  isle  each  beast  may  find  a  den, 
Shall  no  roof  house  our  desolate  old  men  ? 
There  shall  ! 

(To  Audience.) 

I  see  the  builders  throng  around, 
With  line  and  rule  prepared  to  mark  the  ground  ; 
Nor  lack  these  gentlest  wishes — hands  most  fair, 
To  join  the  master  in  his  fervent  prayer  ; 
But  with  instinctive  goodness  crowd  to-night, 
Smiling  approval  of  our  solemn  rite, 
The  noblest  daughters  of  this  favour'd  isle  : — 
And  virtue  labours,  cheer'd  by  beauty's  smile. 
The  stone  is  laid — the  temple  is  begun  — 
Help  !  and  its  walls  will  glitter  in  the  sun. 
There,  'neath  its  roof,  will  charity  assuage 
The  clinging  ills  of  poor  depending  age  ; 
There,  'neath  acacia  boughs,  will  old  men  walk, 
And,  calmly  waiting  death,  with  angels  talk." 

A  year  rolled  round,  and  again  the  aged  Freemasons 
claimed  the  help  of  their  brother's  pen.  A  lyric  offering 
was  the  result.     It  was  entitled 

THE  GREY  HEAD. 

Come,  raise  we  a  temple  of  purpose  divine  ; 

Like  cedars  be  chosen,  the  granite  be  laid  ; 
Though  we  carve  not  the  cherubim's  face  on  the  shrine, 

Be  sure  highest  spirits  will  lend  us  their  aid. 
We  ask  not  to  burnish  our  temple  with  gold, 

We  ask  not  rich  hangings,  blue,  purple,  or  red  ; 
We  seek  but  to  build  up  a  house  for  the  old, 

A  refuge,  a  home,  for  the  helpless  Grey  Head. 

'Tis  little  to  clamber  life's  wearisome  steep, 

When  youth  holds  the  staff,  and  our  sandals  are  new  ; 
Let  hurricanes  ravage,  we  tranquilly  sleep, 

Though  rock  be  our  couch,  and  our  canopy  yew. 
We've  hope  when  we  climb  with  the  bright  early  day — 

The  hill  yet  before  us,  we  heed  not  our  bed ; 
But  when  we  creep  down  with  the  sun-setting  ray, 

The  earth  coldly  pillows  the  helpless  Grey  Head. 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  143 

This  mountain  of  life  hath  its  vines  and  its  streams, 

The  beautiful  olive,  milk,  honey,  and  corn  ; 
And  some  journey  o'er  it  iu  happiest  dreams, 

And  feed  at  all  seasons  from  Plenty's  full  horn. 
And  some,  crawling  downwards,  not  once  on  the  way 

Have  tasted  the  banquet  by  competence  spread  ; 
And,  bent  on  their  staff,  in  mute  eloquence  pray, 

"  A  shelter,  support,  for  the  helpless  Grey  Head."' 

Then  build  we  a  temple  for  age-stricken  grief, 

And  think,  as  we  bid  the  bright  edifice  rise, 
We  give  to  poor  pilgrims  a  passing  relief, 

Who,  sumraon'd,  shall  tell  the  good  deed  in  the  skies. 
Then  build  we  the  temple,  and  pour  we  the  wheat ; 

For  feeding  the  wretched,  with  manna  we're  fed  : 
What  oil  is  so  fragrant,  what  honey  so  sweet, 

As  that  we  bestow  on  the  helpless  Grey  Head  ? 

The  health  of  "Brother  Jen-old,  whose  zeal  and  talents 
have  been  equally  serviceable  to  the  cause,  was  proposed. 
Briefly,  but  energetically,  the  author  expressed  his  thanks." 

Nor  were  these  two  offerings  the  only  helps  given  to  the 
asylum  by  Brother  Douglas  ;  for  in  183D  we  find  him  at  the 
festival  table,  bearing  some  graceful  fancies  with  him  under 
the  branches  of 

THE  PALM  TREE. 

Four  years  are  past  -  four  trying,  anxious  years, 
Since  nerved  by  hopes,  yet  not  untouch'd  by  fears, 
We  sought  and  found  a  seed  of  richest  worth, 
And,  trustful,  laid  the  treasure  in  the  earth ; 
A  sort  of  Canaan's  fruitfulness — for,  lo  ! 
E'en  as  we  look'd,  the  quicken'd  germ  did  grow ; 
And,  all  rejoicing,  hail'd  the  baby  plant, 
The  future  Palm— -whence,  haply,  Aged  Want 
Should  gather  food,  and  bless'd  asylum  find 
From  summer's  sun  and  winter's  killing  wind  ; 
The  old  man's  latter  days  all  tranquil  made 
Beneath  the  spreading  bounty  of  its  shade. 

As  o'er  the  infant  tree  time  silent  flew, 
H'  -  pihi'ius  dropping  blessed  dew, 


144  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

Wax'J  strong  the  Palm,  unsrnit  by  scath  or  blight, 
A  thing  of  goodly  promise,  worth,  and  might, 
That,  tended  still  by  Chanty's  soft  care, 
Gave  forth  its  blossoms  to  the  sweeten'd  air  ; 
And  now,  behold — with  deep  thanksgivings  see — 
Consummate  first  fruit  beautifies  the  tree! 

What  though  but  scant  the  produce  now  appears, 
Yet,  pilgrims  fainting  with  the  load  of  years, 
Shall  taste  its  goodness  on  the  weary  way 
That  lies  before  them  to  the  realms  of  day. 
Though  few  the  dates  the  Palm  Tree  yet  may  bear, 
That  few  the  old,  the  hapless  old,  shall  share. 

The  trav'ller  tells  that,  sanctified  by  time, 
A  mighty  Palm  lifts  up  its  head  sulJime  ; 
With  shade  protects,  sustains  with'  daily  food, 
Whole  tribes  of  men,  who  boast  no  other  good  ; 
Still  daily  nurtured  by  its  fruitful  power, 
As  bees  get  honey  from  the  wayside  flower. 

In  time  our  Palm  may  grant  as  great  a  meed 
To  needy  man,  in  man's  worst  time  of  need  ; 
Its  boughs  so  fruitful,  and  its  shade  so  wide, 
'Twill  give  him  bread,  and  give  a  home  beside. 

In  ancient  days  they  pour'd  a  flood  of  wine 
Around  the  trees  they  nurtui-ed  as  divine, 
Soliciting  the  gods,  with  earnest  suit, 
To  spread  the  branch  and  multiply  the  fruit. 

So,  but  with  nobler,  wiser,  juster  aim, 
Make  we  libations  in  a  holier  name. 
Pour  we  the  wine  of  charity  around, 
And  let  it  bless  and  fertilise  the  ground  ; 

So  that  our  sapling  tree  may  spread  and  rise, 
And  bear  a  produce  grateful  to  the  skies ; 
So  that  beneath  its  fruitful,  ample  dome, 
The  old  may  eat  their  bread,  and  find  a  home. 

In  the  year  1839  Douglas  Jerrold  published  anonymously 
a  little  pungent  squib  entitled,  "  The  Handbook  of  Swind- 
ling, by  Barabbas  Whitefeather,"  which  has  long  been  out  of 


EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO   PERIODICALS.  14.5 

print;  and  in  1840  he  first  appeared  in  the  character  of 
editor,  having  the  direction  of  that  famous  series  of  sketches 
illustrated  by  Kenny  Meadows,  and  to  which  Thackeray,  R. 
H.  Home,  Lainan  Blanchard,  Peake,  and  others  contributed, 
which  collectively  bore  the  title  of  "  Heads  of  the  People." 
The  editor  was  a  voluminous  contributor.  Many  of  his 
contributions  subsequently  appeared  in  the  collected  edi- 
tion of  his  works,  under  the  title  of  "  Sketches  of  the 
English.'''  * 

These  "  Sketches "  have  been  too  often  printed  and  re- 
issued to  require  any  explanatory  extract  or  description  in 
this  place.  But  the  prefaces  to  the  original  volumes  of 
"  The  Heads  of  the  People  "  may  be  noticed  ;  for  the  writer 
thereof  enjoyed  a  reputation  as  a  preface  writer.  He  could 
always  weave  some  graceful  fancy,  twist  some  moral,  out  of 
a  story  from  old  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  or  Buffon,  or  the 
Almanack  des  Gourmands,  or  Charlevoix's  "  Experiences 
among  the  North  American  Indians."  Now  Plutarch's 
hedgehog  gives  felicitous  illustration  ;  and  now  "  philosophic 
Bayle  "  is  shown,  his  cloak  wrapped  around  him,  watching 
the  vagaries  of  Punch.  The  preface  is  somehow  removed 
from  the  dull,  measured  statement  of  intentions ;  the  pre- 
tentious humility  with  which  the  ordinary  writer  avows 
infinite  shortcomings  ;  and  the  whining  appeal  to  the  mercy 
of  critics. 

*  The  Pew-Opener ;  The  Young  Lord ;  The  Undertaker ;  The  Postman  ; 
The  Ballad-Singer;  The  Hangman;  The  Linen-Draper's  Assistant;  The 
1 )  1  t,r  and  Creditor ;  The  "Lion"  of  a  Party ;  The  Cockney;  The  Money- 
Lender  ;  The  Diner-Out;  The  Pawnbroker ;  and  the  Printer's  Devil. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

COMEDIES — LEAVE-TAKING    OF   THE    STAGE. 

Long  before  the  year  1842  Douglas  Jerrold  had  established 
himself  in  the  patent  houses  as  a  most  successful  and  original 
dramatist.  The  Bride  of  Ludgate,  The  Hazard  of  the  Die, 
and  The  Rent  Day  had  been  played  at  Drury  Lane ;  Nell 
Gwynne  and  The  White  Milliner  had  appeared  at  Covent 
Garden ;  The  Housekeeper,  The  Mother,  Beau  Nash,  &c,  had 
been  presented  to  the  public  at  the  Haymarket ;  and  at  the 
Adelphi  The  Devil's  Ducat,  Doves  in  a  Cage,  &c.,  had  been 
acted  with  success.  The  author,  cheered  by  these  dra- 
matic laurels,  and  emboldened  by  other  literary  triumphs, 
had  determined  to  set  his  strength  before  his  fellow  country- 
men in  a  five-act  comedy.  He  could  now  risk  the  danger 
that  lies  in  such  a  work.  He  had  his  appointed  place  in  the 
literature  of  his  time.  He  had  held  the  attention  of  the 
town  by  his  "  Men  of  Character,"  as  they  appeared  originally 
in  Blackwood  and  the  New  Monthly,  and  by  the  humorous 
bits  of  philosophy  just  collected  under  the  quaint  title  of 
"  Cakes  and  Ale."  More — he  was  known  as  a  keen  and 
erudite  dramatic  critic,  who  had  contributed  some  re- 
markable studies  of  dramatic  performances  to  the  Morning 
Herald  and  other  papers.  He  had  written  also  in  the  Herald 
some  strong  leaders  on  capital  punishments  and  clerical 
delinquencies. 

Punch,  too— still  a  baby  periodical,  and  very  rickety — was 
growing,  and  was  about  to  pass  into  the  vigorous  hands  of 


COMEDIES-LEAVE-TAKING   OF  THE   STAGE.         H7 

Messrs.  Bradbury  and  Evans.  A  bright  star  guided  the 
indefatigable  author  now.  He  had  met  a  reverse  at  Covent 
Garden  in  1841,  which,  on  this  25th  of  February,  1842,  he 
was  about  to  redeem.  The  failure  of  The  White  Milliner 
was  forgotten  in  the  great  literary  success  of  The  Bubbles  of 
the  Day.  Yet  the  author  could  not  part  from  the  former 
production  without  explaining  its  origin  and  its  failure. 
Writing  in  February,  1841,  he  says  : — 

"  To  the  north  of  Durham  Place  (Strand),  fronting  the  street, 
stood  the  New  Exchange,  or  England's  Burse;  'built,'  says 
Pennant,  'under  the  auspices  of  James  I.  in  1608,  out  of  the 
rubbish  of  the  old  stables  of  Durham  House.  It  was  built  some- 
what on  the  model  of  the  Royal  Exchange,  with  cellars  beneath, 
a  walk  above,  and  rows  of  shops  over  that,  filled  chiefly  with 
milliners,  sempstresses,  and  the  like.'  Walpole  relates  that  a 
female,  suspected  to  be  the  widow  of  the  Duke  of  Tyrconnel, 
supported  herself,  till  she  was  known  and  otherwise  provided 
for,  by  the  little  trade  of  this  place,  and  had  delicacy  enough  not 
to  wish  to  be  detected.  She  sat  in  a  white  mask  and  a  white 
dress,  and  was  known  by  the  name  of  the  White  Widoiv.  It  is 
this  incident  that  suggested  the  composition  of  the  little  comedy 
here  presented  to  the  reader. 

"In  our  day,  the  dramatist  who  keeps  aloof  from  a  small 
faction,  which  almost  avowedly  adopts  for  its  motto  the  dogma 
of  Moliere, — 

Nul  n'aura  de  1'esprit, 
Hors  nous  et  nos  amis, — 

may  look  for  tho  most  unrelenting  opposition  from  two  or  three 
stalwart  critics,  or  rather  literary  vassals.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, the  despicable  partisanship  of  these  people  is  now  too  well 
known  to  be  hurtful.  "Whether  they  chronicle  their  injustice  in 
bold  falsehood,  or,  with  an  affectation  of  candour,  examine  a 
drama  to  find  in  it  nothing  but  what  is  contemptible,  the  dis- 
interested motive  is  equally  manifest.  However,  the  abuse  i  f 
these  folks,  like  certain  poisons  long  exposed  to  light,  does  not 
destroy — it  only  nauseates. — D.  J." 

There  are  scenes  in  The  White  Milliner  that  deserve  to 
live  ;  many  that  are  worthy  of  the  author  of  the  Rubbles  of 

h  2 


148  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEMtOLD. 

the  Day  and  Time  Works  Wonders.  Of  the  rapid  dialogue 
here  are  a  few  samples.  Sneezum  describes  to  Albina,  the 
White  Milliner,  how  he  courted  the  widow  Mellawpear  : — 

"Sneezum.  You  see,  when  Mrs.  Mollowpear  was  young  she 
married  an  old  man.     He's  dead,  and  now 

Albina.  Revenge  is  sweet.     She'd  marry  you  ? 

Sneezum.  I  fear  her  revenge  lies  that  way. 

Albina.  Has  your  courtship  been  long  afoot  ? 

Sneezum.  To  own  the  truth,  it  began  over  the  late  Mr.  Mellow- 
pear'e  medicine. 

Albina.  A  timely  beginning,  and  no  less  strange.     How  ? 

Sneezum.  I've  been  many  trades.  My  last  service  was  with  a 
doctor.     I  brought  the  physic  that  old  Mellowpear  died  upon. 

Albina.  And  so,  whilst  the  poor  man  was  going  to  the  church- 
yard, you  were  preparing  his  widow  once  more  for  the  church  ? 

Sneezum.  Twice  a  day  I  came  to  this  house  as  double  com- 
forter ;  I  brought  bottles  to  the  dying  and  hope  to  the  sorrowful. 
I  knew  my  master's  practice,  and  courted  according  to  the  colour 
of  the  physic. 

Albina.  In  truth,  a  curious  test. 

Sneezum.  Not  at  all;  he  was  an  upright  man,  and  treated  all 
his  patients  just  alike.  Thus  I  grew  warm  with  the  brown,  and 
warmer  with  the  orange  colour;  but  when  it  came  tho  pale 
pink — pop,  I  declared  myself," 

Sneezum  meets  Justice  Twilight. 

"  Twilight.  Tell  me  truly.  As  a  magistrate,  I've  seen  your 
face  before  ? 

Sneezum.  Truly,  as  a  magistrate,  you  have. 

Twilight.  On  what  business  ? 

Sneezum.  Since  I've  had  four  meals  a  day  I've  quite  forgot, 
No ;  I  recollect  this — we  met  once,  and  after  a  short  ceremony  I 
retired  from  the  world  for  two  months.  It's  odd,  your-  worship, 
but  as  I  look  in  your  face  I  begin  to  smell  oakum. 

Twilight.  Ha!  I  remember;  a  Bridewell  bird ;  caged  by  the 
law  as  a  rogue  and  vagabond. 

Sneezum.  A  foolish  law  to  make  so  vile  a  jumble ;  for  how 
many  fine  rogues  are  there  who  are  fine  because  they  are  not 
vagabonds  ?  and  how  many  vagabonds  who  live  and  die  vagaT 
L;  »nds,  because,  indeed;  they  will  not  consent  to  be  rogues  ? 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE   STAGE.        149 

Twilight.  I  recollect;  I  sent  you  to  gaol  for  larceny — for  some 
misappropriation  of  other  people's  goods. 

Stieezum.  I  was  found  guilty  of  taking  another  man's  door- 
step for  my  pillow,  and  burning  starlight  for  rushlight.  That's 
over  ;  now  I'm  respectable ;  can,  if  I  will,  snore  to  the  best 
tallow,  and  when  I  wake  can  lie  till  breakfast's  brought  me, 
staring  at  the  story  of  Cock  Robin  worked  in  the  bed-curtains. 
Even  wedded  love  before  a  door-step." 

The  story  halts  here,  it  will  be  seen,  to  put  an  abuse — a 
world's  harshness—  the  sin  of  poverty — in  striking  and 
humorous  phrases  before  the  audience. 

Toadying  Justice  Twilight  describes  Minister  Ortolan  : — 
"  A  nobleman  whose  statesmanship,  great  as  it  may  be,  isn't 
fit  to  hold  a  rushlight  to  his  morality." 

The  equivoque  between  Lord  and  Lady  Ortolan,  at  the  end 
of  the  second  act,  is  the  dramatic  climax  of  this  little  comedy. 
The  author  was  bitterly  disappointed  that  its  pointed  and 
tender  dialogue,  and  its  brisk  action,  failed  to  achieve  success ; 
more — as  may  be  gathered  from  his  own  words — that  per- 
sonal enmity,  carried  dishonestly  into  public  criticism,  sought 
to  put  it  aside  as  a  thing  in  all  respects  worthless.  But  his 
was  not  a  nature  to  be  easily  turned  from  a  resolution. 
"  Firm  resolve "  took  the  van  with  him  throughout  his 
life. 

It  was  natural  in  him,  after  the  failure  of  The  White 
Milliner,  to  write  The  Bubbles  of  the  Day — the  piece 
which,  according  to  Charles  Kemble,  had  wit  enough  for 
three  comedies.  On  all  sides,  men  who  admired  the 
dialogue,  declared  the  lack  of  interest,  of  plot,  of  action, 
marred  this  work.  Charges  of  bitterness  were  again  turned 
against  the  author,  who  replied  that,  having  taken  for  his 
theme  the  absurdities  and  meannesses  of  fools  and  knaves, 
he  trusted  he  had  not  exhibited  the  offenders  in  sugar ;  after 
the  fashion  of  a  certain  confectioner,  who  offered  his  cus- 
tomers the    head   of   Fieschi  in  "  pure  saccharine."     Lord 


150  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Skindeep,  a  man  who  would  have  been  capital   in  a  pan- 
tomime, but  was  carried  into  parliament  to  represent  Muff- 
borough,  and  is  covertly  "skewered"  in  the  weekly  papers 
by  his  radical  butler  (who  writes  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
"  Brutus  the   Elder " ),    is    delicately  contrasted    with  Mr. 
Chatham  Brown,  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons,  also 
for  Muffborough,  son  of  Mr.  Brown,  who  wishes  his  son  to  be 
a  somebody,  and  declares  that  there  is  but  one  path  to  sub- 
stantial greatness — the  path  of  statesmanship.    "  For,  though 
you  set  out  in  a  threadbare  coat  and  a  hole  in  either  shoe,  if 
you  walk  with  a  cautious  eye  to  the  sides,  you'll  one  day  find 
yourself  in  velvet  and  gold,  with  music  in  your  name  and 
money  in  your  pocket."     Brown  would  die   happy  could  he 
see  his  son  Chatham  "  reeled  out  into  five  columns."     City 
shams  are  represented  by  Sir  Phenix  Clearcake,  who  is  getting 
up  a  bazaar,  the  proceeds  of  which  are  to  be  devoted  to  a 
national    purpose,    namely,    to    paint  St.   Paul's !     Captain 
Smoke  represents  speculation.     He  is  promoting  a  company 
to  take   Mount  Vesuvius  on  lease  for  the  manufactory  of 
lucifer  matches ;  and  a  cemetery  company,  in  which  a  family 
vault  is  given  as  a  bonus  to  the  chairman.     Melon,  the  bar- 
rister, in  the  hands  of  the  money-lender,  Malmsey  Shark,  still 
raises  money,  saying,  "  In  this  world  purses  are  the  arteries 
of  life  ;  as  they  are  full  or  empty  we  are  men  or  carcasses." 
But  the  play  winds  about  Skindeep,  the  greatly  professing 
philanthropist  and  lover  of  his  species,  who  cants  and  practises 
no   social  virtues,  no  chivalry  to  weak  or  poor.     Respecta- 
bility preaching  meannesses  and  heartless  doings,  oppressing 
the  lowly,  and  ducking  the  pate  to  the  golden  fool — here  is 
the  theme.     "  Hear  the  last   paragi-aph  !  (Reads.)     '  When 
the  race  of  Skindeeps  shall  practise  all  they  talk,  then  will 
they  become  a  social  treasure,  the  very  jewels  of  their  kind. 
But  when  their  goodness  is  a  sound,  and  their  benevolence 

mere  breath,  what  are  they  but — but' (Forces  the  paper 

■upon  Skindeep). 


COMEDIES  -LEAVE-TAKIXG  OF  THE   STAGE.        151 

Slindeep.  Hem  !  (Beads.)  <  Bubbles  of  a  Day  ? '  " 
This  comedy  had  a  great  literary  success.  It  was  well 
played.  Mr.  Faren  was  Lord  Skindeep — the  cold,  the  dig- 
nified, the  artificial  man,  wearing  philanthropy  ostentatiously, 
as  he  wore  his  coronet — fashionably,  as  he  wore  his  coat. 
Charles  Mathews,  as  the  speculator,  Captain  Smoke,  was  a 
most  refined,  and  dashing,  and  voluble  adventurer,  with  the 
grace  and  heartiness  to  make  his  swindling  almost  agreeable. 
Pamela  Spreadweasel  !  Well,  she  was  interpreted  by  charm- 
ing Mrs.  Nisbett.  And  on  all  sides  the  sparkle,  the  profound 
wit,  of  the  comedy,  were  largely  allowed.  It  was  a  coronet  of 
1  irilliants  to  the  author,  and  the  glitter  dazzled  beholders  ; 
but  the  emotion  in  the  piece  was  not  sufficient  for  a  general 
audience.  Fame  came  to  cheer  the  dramatist,  but  there  was 
not  a  long  run  to  satisfy  the  managers. 

At  the  theatre  opposite — at  Drury  Lane,  then  wisely  and 
in  a  most  dignified  spirit  administered  by  Mr.  Macready — a 
shorter  piece  had  been  produced  with  marked  success.  Only 
a  few  nights  before  Bubbles  of  the  Day  appeared  at  Covent 
Garden,  namely,  on  the  8th  of  February,  1842,  the  Prisoner 
of  War  was  played  at  the  great  rival  establishment.  This 
piece,  like  Bubbles  of  the  Day,  was  the  fruit  of  a  residence  in 
Boulogne,  where  the  author  had  taken  a  cottage  in  1840 — the 
very  cottage  in  which  Mrs.  Jordan  dwelt.  Here,  in  perfect 
quiet,  with  his  children  at  school  about  him,  Douglas  Jerrold 
spent  two  very  happy  summers.  He  who  had  begun  life  on 
board  a  man-of-war,  imbibing  a  fierce  hatred  of  Mounseer — 
he  who  had  borne  wounded  countrymen  from  Waterloo — now 
retired  from  the  fierce  life,  the  maddening  stir,  of  London, 
to  a  French  port.  Days  were  passed  working  upon  a  comedy, 
based  on  the  Englishmen's  war  prison  of  Verdun — passed 
amid  French  fishermen.  The  life  was  easy,  fresh.  The  stiff 
dressing,  the  conventional  laces,  of  the  West  End  could  be 
cast  away,  the  straw  hat  could  be  always  worn,  and  the  sea 
could  be  seen  stretching  along  a  winding  seaboard  to  Cape 


152  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERuOLD. 

Grinez.  More — the  fringe  of  snow  parting  the  ocean  from 
the  sky  was  Dover.  Shakspeare's  cliff  was  within  telescope 
reach !  The  letters  to  Laman  Blanchard  beckoning  him 
across  the  water,  speak  the  great  content  of  these  Boulogne 
years. 

The  dramatist  loved  this  bit  of  sea  ;  and  when  the  public 
applause  of  the  Anglo-French  alliance  was  at  its  loudest, 
declared  that  "  still  the  best  thing  he  knew  between  France 
and  England  was  the  Channel." 

The  Prisoner  of  War  is  in  two  acts  ;  the  scene  Verdun  ; 
the  date  1803.  It  is  a  story  of  a  plot  to  escape  from  prison. 
The  comedy  is  a  most  delicate  contrast  between  the  English 
bluff  prisoners,  with  their  English  prejudices ;  and  vain  French- 
men, with  their  ignorance  of  everything  beyond  their  crwn 
frontier.  Pallmall,  a  sleek  citizen  caught  on  the  wing  by 
Bonaparte,  as  played  by  Mr.  Keeley,  was  accepted  as  the  best 
character  of  the  piece.  His  enthusiasm,  as  well  as  that  of 
Polly  Pallmall,  in  the  vindication  of  England's  reputation 
against  the  aspersion  of  foreigners,  carries  him  to  wonder- 
fully humorous  lengths.  Babette,  a  French  girl,  declares 
that  "  Monsieur  Pallmall,  who  was  born  and  bred  in  London, 
says  he  never  saw  a  fog  till  he  came  to  France."  Pallmall 
makes  bold  to  assert  before  dazzled  Frenchmen  that  we 
haven't  the  word  "  tax  "  in  the  English  language.  "  There 
are  two  or  three  duties,  to  be  sure,"  adds  the  boastful  Briton  ; 
"  but  then,  with  us,  duties  are  pleasures."  The  French  are 
incredulous,  and  seek  to  know  how  the  English  government 
is  kept  up.  "  Like  an  hour-glass,"  responds  Pallmall 
valiantly ;  "  when  one  side's  quite  run  out  we  turn  up  the 
other,  and  go  on  again."  Then  the  loves  of  Polly  Pallmall 
and  Tom  Heyday,  the  midshipman,  come  upon  the  scene. 
Polly's  rich  cockney  isms  told  wonderfully  upon  an  English 
audience,  especially  from  the  unctuous  lips  of  Mrs.  Keeley. 
Polly  has  the  most  elevated  notions  of  an  English  mid- 
shipman's importance.     "  What's  the  pay  of  a  midshipman  1 " 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING   OF  THE   STAGE.        153 

she  asks.  Midshipman  Heyday  answers,  "  The  pay,  Polly, 
is  not  enormous,  but  the  perquisites  are  extraordinary.  Yes, 
we're  always  getting  something  that  we  don't  care  about." 
Now  Polly  dotes  upon  the  sea — "from  the  beach."  Her 
brother  dwells  upon  the  imprudence  of  a  marriage  with  a 
midshipman,  and  asks  her  how  she  will  live  should  a  cannon 
ball  carry  off  her  husband.  Polly  haughtily  answers,  "  I 
shall  not  trouble  you,  sir.  As  a  midshipman's  widow  I  shall 
live  upon  my  pension."  Then  blunt  Lieutenant  Firebrace 
stands  in  contrast  to  Cockney  Pallmall,  a  most  refresh- 
ing bit  of  humanity  that  has  been  kept  sweet  by  the  salt. 
Firebrace  bids  Pallmall  cease  his  boasting  about  England. 
"  Where  nature  has  done  so  well,  there's  little  need  of 
paint  or  patches."  Polly,  who  is  standing  by,  is  enrap- 
tured with  this  sentiment,  and  exclaims,  "  Why  couldn't  I 
think  of  it  when  Ma-amselle  La  Nymphe  wanted  me  to 
wear  rouge  1 " 

The  hearty  life  of  sailors  courses  through  all  the  scenes 
of  this  little  comedy  :  you  see  the  middy  with  a  pen  in  his 
hand.  The  eyes  of  a  pretty  girl  are  killing — so  killing, 
"  small  arms  in  the  tops  are  as  nothing  to  'em."  Fire- 
brace suddenly  learns  that  his  wife,  Clariua,  with  her  old 
father,  Captain  Channel  of  the  Temeraire,  is  a  prisoner  in 
Verdun.  "  But,  Basil,"  says  Midshipman  Heyday,  "  why 
you're  as  white  as  a  purser's  clerk  at  the  first  broadside." 

"  Many  a  time,"  says  Firebrace  to  Clarina,  "  have  you 
walked  the  middle  watch  with  me.  When  the  sky  was 
pitch,  the  wind  a  gale,  and  the  sea  mountains,  then  have 
you  paced  the  deck  with  me — then  have  I  felt  you  nestling 
at  my  arm — then  have  I  looked  into  your  loving  eyes,  and 
my  heart  has  melted  at  your  gentle  voice." 

Captain  Channel  is  a  sailor  of  the  old  school.  Hearing 
that  the  ship  in  which  Firebrace  was  captured  had  run 
aground,  he  exclaims,  "  Aground  !  What  a  beautiful  world 
this  would  be  if  it  was  all  salt  water  V 


154  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

And  there  is  a  serenade,  sung  by  Clarina,  at  the  end  of 
the  first  act,  full  of  tender  grace  : — 

"  The  dove's  in  the  bough,  and  the  lark's  in  the  corn, 
And  folded  to  rest  are  the  lilies  of  morn  ; 
In  balm  falls  the  dew,  and  the  moon's  tender  light 
Robes  upland  and  valley — good  night,  love,  good  night ! 

"  Thy  heart  may  it  waken  to  peace  like  the  dove  ; 
Like  the  lark  may  it  offer  its  gladness  above  ; 
And  lilies,  that  open  tbeir  treasures  of  white, 
Resemble  thy  fortune — good  night,  love,  good  night!" 

Beaver,  in  love  with  Clarina,  is  tied  to  a  game  of  chess 
with  her  father,  Captain  Channel.  The  anguish  of  Beaver, 
who  knows  that  Firebrace  and  Clarina  are  together,  and  the 
coolness  of  the  old  captaiu,  contrast  forcibly  and  dramatically. 
"  How  exquisitely  Clarina  sang  to-night ! "  observes  poor 
Beaver.  "  Why,  the  wench  can  twitter — but  that's  not 
chess,"  stolidly  replies  the  captain. 

The  captain  reproves  his  daughter  for  reading  trashy 
novels.  "  When  I  was  young,"  he  tells  her,  "  girls  used  to 
read  '  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  such  books 
of  innocence ;  now  young  ladies  know  the  ways  of  Newgate 
as  well  as  the  turnkeys.  Then  books  gave  girls  hearty, 
healthy  food  ;  now,  silly  things,  like  larks  in  cages,  they  live 
upon  hemp-seed." 

The  success  of  the  Prisoner  of  War  encouraged  its  author 
to  tempt  fortune  with  a  second  two-act  comedy,  having 
French  life,  and  contrast  between  Englishmen  and  French- 
men, for  its  basis.  Still  in  the  quiet  retreat  of  the  Boulogne 
cottage  the  author  set  to  work.  His  subject  was  a  happy 
one — the  field  of  Waterloo,  with  its  bazaars  of  manufactured 
glories — its  stars  streaked  and  rusted  to  counterfeit  blood 
—its  half-sabres  expressly  made  to  cheat  the  buyer  into  the 
belief  that  the  other  halves  lie  buried  in  dead  soldiers' 
bodies.  Thither  is  an  English  undertaker  conducted,  who, 
in    his    laudable    desire    to   spend    his    honeymoon    in  the 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING   OF   THE   STAGE.        155 

churchyards  of  the  continent,  holds  that  the  field  of  Wei- 
lington's  victory  should  not  be  omitted.  The  huckstering 
between  Crossbones  and  Blague,  the  French  guide  and  vendor 
of  manufactured  relics,  is  the  main  point  of  humour  in 
Gertrudes  Cherries  ;  or  Waterloo  in  1835.  Crossbones,  however, 
is  disappointed.  He  thought  he  might  find  some  new  ideas 
on  the  field  of  glory,  and  he  asks  dolefully  where  the  tomb- 
stones are.  He  buys,  however,  "a  dozen  beautiful  bullets, 
and  the  hooks  and  eyes  of  a  drummer's  jacket."  Blague 
laughs,  tells  Crossbones  to  beware  of  cheats,  and  presently 
offers  him  a  genuine  relic — a  toothpick,  cut  from  the  tree 
under  which  the  duke  stood  during  the  battle.  Crossbones 
buys,  also,  a  boot-jack  cut  from  the  same  tree  ;  a  pack  of 
cards  with  a  bullet-hole  through  them  ;  and  gives  five  shil- 
lings more  for  the  bullet  that  whizzed  through  the  pack.  At 
last  Blague  asks  Crossbones  to  take  off  his  hat  and  go  upon 
his  knees  while  he  exhibits  the  cribbage-board  of  "  le  grand 
Napoleon."  The  cribbage-board  is  bought  for  three  guineas, 
and  away  goes  Blague  triumphantly.  Crossbones  is  delighted, 
having  cheapened  it  from  five  pounds  to  three.  But  presently 
Blague  returns,  and,  holding  up  the  cribbage-pegs,  demands 
two  sovereigns  more.  After  a  time  the  undertaker  pays. 
Blague  throws  in  a  little  moral  :  "  And  now,  Monsieur,  I  will 
give  you  a  petite  histoire,  a  leetel  story.  De  whole  world  is 
nothing  but  a  large — large — large  board  of  cribbage  ;  and  de 
ouly  ting  dat  show  de  wise  man  from  de  fool  is,  never — never 
for  un  petit  moment,  a  leetel  moment — never  to  forget  his 
pegs." 

The  stoiy  of  "VVilloughby,  who  believes  he  has  lost  a  scape- 
grace son  on  the  field,  and  who  finds  him  wedded  to  a  peasant 
wife,  and  the  father  of  fair  Gertrude,  the  cherry  vendor,  gives 
the  serious  interest  of  the  piece.  In  Halcyon,  the  old  dis- 
carded lover  of  Willoughby's  ward,  and  who  has  made  a 
pedestrian  tour  to  conquer  disappointed  love,  there  is  a 
character  full    of   hearty   English  stuff.     He   finds  his  old 


15G  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERItOLD. 

mistress  travelling  with  her  guardian  at  Waterloo.  Here  he 
meets  his  old  friends.  He  declares  that  his  trip  has  done 
him  good,  and  that  in  half  an  hour  he  starts  for  Italy. 
"  Happy  !  "  he  cries.  "  Look  at  me  !  Knapsack,  two  shirts, 
four  stockings,  needle  and  thread,  paper  of  buttons,  meer- 
schaum pipe,  light  heart,  and  German  tinder.  I've  all  the 
beauties  of  this  beautifid  world  before  me,  and  no  iron 
creditor,  with  face  keen  as  a  carving-knife,  to  cut  my  throat 
for  sixpence.  *  *  *  And  now,  if  I  cared  for  money,  I'd 
turn  postman  to  the  habitable  globe,  and  have  my  afternoons 
for  cricketing."  Of  course  Halcyon  drops  his  knapsack,  and 
buys  a  wedding-ring  ;  and  Gertrude  weds  her  cousin,  who 
take's  her  cherries  "  blushing  on  the  tree  " 

Three  very  busy  yeai'S  elapsed  after  the  production  of 
Gertrude's  Cherries  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  in  September, 
1842,  before  Douglas  Jerrold  made  another  appearance  upon 
the  stage.  He  had  been  all  this  time  engaged  upon  various 
literary  tasks.  Punch,  however,  had  absorbed  the  greater 
part  of  his  time.  He  had  written  the  "  Q.  Papers "  and 
other  series  in  it.  Every  week  had  he  contributed  short 
essays  and  pungent  satires  to  its  popular  pages.  He  had 
started  the  Illuminated  Magazine,  and  in  it  had  written  the 
"  Chronicles  of  Clovernook "  and  other  contributions.  In 
these  three  busy  years,  however,  he  had  "  picked  up  "  one  or 
two  remarkable  dramatic  characters.  This  reference  to  cha- 
racter "prospecting"  recalls  to  my  mind  a  certain  day  when 
my  father  met  Mr.  Alfred  Bunn  in  Jermyn  Street. 

"  What !  "  said  Mr.  Bunn,  "  I  suppose  you're  strolling 
about,  picking  up  character." 

"  Well,  not  exactly,"  was  the  reply,  "  though  there's 
plenty  lost  here,  I'm  told." 

He  returned  to  the  stage  in  April,  1845,  his  characters 
woven  into  a  five-act  comedy,  which  he  called  Time  Works 
Wonders.  This  comedy  is  very  generally  allowed  to  be  his 
dramatic  masterpiece,  having  all  the  brilliancy  of  the  Babbles 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING   OF  THE   STAGE.         137 

of  the  Dai/,  with  that  in  which  the  Bubbles  were  said  to  be 
deficient,  namely,  strong  interest,  action,  plot.  It  has  been 
said  of  Time  Works  Wonders  that  it  "blazes  with  epigrams 
like  Vanxhall  with  lamps." 

Time  Works  Wonders  was  first  played  at  the  Haymarket 
Theatre  on  the  26th  of  April,  1845.  It  met  with  a  most 
enthusiastic  reception  from  an  audience  that  included  nearly 
all  the  literary  men  then  in  London.  It  ran — filling  the 
theatre  aud  bringing  fortune  to  the  manager — about  ninety 
nights.  Mr.  Farreu,  Mr.  Charles  Mathews,  Mr.  Strickland, 
Mr.  Buckstone,  Mr.  Tilbury,  Miss  Fortescue,  Madame 
Vestris,  Mrs.  Glover,  and  Mrs.  Humby,  were  included  in 
the  cast. 

The  first  title  given  to  this  comedy  was  School-Girl  Love. 
The  story  is  that  of  a  baronet's  nephew,  who  falls  in  love 
with  a  school-girl,  one  Florentine,  a  baker's  daughter,  and  is 
parted  from  her  by  the  pride  of  his  uncle.  But  presently  the 
proud  uncle  meets  Florentine — falls  in  love  with  her  him- 
self, not  knowing  that  she  is  the  baker's  daughter.  The  end 
is  the  generous  self-sacrifice  of  the  baronet,  and  his  consent 
to  his  son's  marriage.  Miss  Tucker,  Florentine's  school- 
mistress ;  Professor  Truffles,  who  carries  the  solar  system  in 
a  deal  box  ;  and  the  old  trunkmaker,  Goldthumb,  are  the 
three  strongly  marked  characters  of  the  comedy.  Both  the 
Professor  and  the  schoolmistress  were  drawn,  almost  photo- 
graphed, from  life  ;  and  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  appear- 
ance were  at  once  recognised  as  the  bits  of  refreshing  life  in 
the  piece.  Mr.  Strickland,  as  the  Professor,  was  inimitably 
pompous ;  and  Mrs.  Humby  gave  her  points,  sharply  aud 
neatly,  as  only  she  could  give  them.  Miss  Fortescue,  en- 
gaged at  the  Haymarket  specially  to  play  in  this  piece,  justi- 
fied the  choice  of  the  author  by  the  most  tender,  tfie  most 
pathetic,  and  then  the  most  joyous,  acting. 

The   first  act,  in  which  the  elopement  from  school  takes 
place,  was  hailed  as  a  piece  of  perfect  dramatic  construction, 


158  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEItROLD. 

It  is  full  of  points,  too,  that  on  the  first  night  brought  down 
rapturous  applause.  The  dialogue  between  Professor  Truffles 
and  Felix  Goldthunib,  with  which  the  comedy  opens,  at  once 
held  the  attention  of  the  audience.  While  the  Professor  and 
his  young  friend  are  dining,  a  post-chaise  drives  into  the 
court-yard,  containing  Florentine  and  her  schoolfellow  Bessy 
— the  former  eloping  from  school  with  the  baronet's  nephew, 
Clarence  Norman.  Felix  recognises  both  the  Oxford  man 
and  the  baker's  daughter. 

"  It  seems,"  says  Felix,  "  but  a  few  weeks  since  she  was  a 
wild  thing,  running  about  in  a  pinafore,  and  eating  bread 
and  butter."  Responds  the  Professor,  "  Yes  ;  and  you'll 
think  the  innocent  creatures  will  go  on  eating  it  for  years  to 
come,  when  somebody  whispers  '  bride-cake,'  and  down  drops 
the  bread  and  butter."  A  burst  of  applause  followed  this 
point.  Then  Clarence  enters,  wrangling  with  the  post-boy — 
the  post-boy  who,  seeing  the  business  on  which  he  is  bound, 
doesn't  know  whether,  "  as  father  of  a  family,  he  oughtn't 
to  take  out  the  linch-pins."  Then  the  arrival  of  Miss 
Tucker,  who  cages  her  runaway  birds  by  the  help  of  Olive 
and  old  Goldthunib,  brought  the  curtain  down  upon  the 
first  act,  with  a  loud  clapping  of  hands,  and  most  genuine 
bravos !  There  are  the  eggs  and  bacon  provided  for  the 
Professor,  served  to  the  school-girls,  then  left  by  them  on  the 
appearance  of  Miss  Tucker  and  her  companions,  and  finally 
eaten  by  the  schoolmistress  and  old  trunkmaker  Goldthunib, 
giving  pleasant  by-play  to  the  landlord,  and  truth  to  the 
scene.  Goldthunib  describes  his  boy  to  Miss  Tucker  : — 
"  Not  a  bit  of  use  in  the  shop,  but  a  wonderful  lad.  He 
hasn't  been  home  these  four  days ;  but  he's  an  extraordinary 
boy."  "A  genius — a  genius,  no  doubt,"  Miss  Tucker  in- 
terposes. "  Quite — quite  a  genius,"  the  trunkmaker  replies. 
"  How  he'll  ever  get  his  bread  and  pay  his  way,  heaven 
knows."  At  the  end  of  the  act  Truffles  returns,  prepared  to 
enjoy  his  eggs  and  bacon— having  first  seen  that  his  old 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE  STAGE.        159 

flame,  Miss  Tucker,  had  departed — but  finds  the  dainty 
already  demolished.  "Your  bacon  was  eaten  by  another,'' 
says  Jugby,  the  landlord.  "  Eaten  our  bacon !  "  exclaims 
the  Professor.     "  May  he  live  on  periwinkles  ! '' 

The  second  act  opens  upon  the  mansion  of  Sir  Gilbert 
Norman.  Bantam,  a  loose  sporting  character,  played  by 
Mr.  Buckstone,  is  ringing  at  the  bell  to  see  young  Norman 
about  some  fighting  cocks.  The  servant  tells  Bantam  that 
Sir  Gilbert  is  not  at  home.  Bantam  responds,  "  I  say,  I've 
heard  people  say  truth  lives  in  a  well ;  if  so,  I'd  advise  you 
to  take  an  early  dip  in  the  bucket.''  Then  follows  an 
account  of  how  Sir  Gilbert  has  sent  his  nephew  abroad  to 
cure  him  of  his  attachment  to  the  baker's  daughter ;  and 
how  the  baker's  daughter,  her  father  being  dead,  left  Oxford. 
"  There's  all  sorts  of  stories  about,"  Bantam  wisely  adds ; 
"  but,  as  we  know  nothing  certain  of  her,  it's  only  nat'ral  to 
think  the  worst." 

Truffles  and  Bantam  meet.  Truffles  pretends  to  forget 
Bantam,  and  with  a  flourish  of  a  scented  pocket-handkerchief 
is  about  to  exit,  when  Bantam  makes  the  following  profound 
reflection  : — "  This  is  what  the  world  calls  principle  !  'Owed 
me  half  a  crown  for  seven  years,  and  wears  lavender  water  !  " 
Truffles  inquires  about  Miss  Tucker,  and  learns  that  the 
elopement  ruined  her  school.  Bantam,  in  return,  asks  the 
Professor  to  give  him  a  character  for  the  place  of  valet  in  old 
Goldthumb's  establishment.  "  What !  "  exclaims  Truffles, 
"  pass  you  off  for  my  servant !  Consider  the  risk."  "  Don't 
we  share  it,"  asks  cool  Bantam,  "  when  I  pass  you  off  for  my 
master  ? "  Next  Florentine  appears,  on  a  sketching  expedi- 
tion, accompanied  by  Miss  Tucker,  who  is  now  her  com- 
panion, boring  the  poor  girl  on  every  conceivable  occasion 
with  her  plaintive  gratitude.  Miss  Tucker  lectures  Floren- 
tine : — '  Allow  me  to  observe — though,  as  I'm  a  dependent, 
I  know  I've  no  right  to  speak — that  your  frequent  allusions 
to  nature  are  not  decorous.     With  young  women  of  my  time 


1(50  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

nature  was  the  last  thing  thought  of.     I  know  I'm  only  a 
dependent,    and  people  who  live  in   other  people's   houses 
should  have -no  tongues,  no   eyes,  no "     Poor  Floren- 
tine's warm  heart  is  hurt  and  stung  by  this  miserable  fret- 
fulness,  and  she  speaks  boldly  :  "  I  cannot  bear  this  ;  I  will 
not  bear  it.     You  hurt  me,  wound  me  deeply.     If  it  irk  you 
to  dwell  beneath  the  same  roof;  if  it  constrain  you  in  the 
least — though  why  it  should  I  know  not — choose  your  own 
abode  ;    share  my  little  fortune  how  and  where  you  will. 
But  I  cannot  have  my  friendship  taken  as  alms — my  love 
thus  ever  chilled  with  the  cold  sense  of  obligation.     You 
have  at  length  forced  me  to  speak.     It  is  unkind  of  you — 
indelicate."     Miss  Tucker  is  highly  incensed.     "  Indelicate  ! 
Such  a  word  to  me — to  me,  who  have  kept  parlour  boarders  ? 
I  know  I'm  only  an  interloper ;  but  can  gratitude  be  indeli- 
cate ? "     Florentine's  wisdom  comes  from  her  heart.     "  It 
may  be  mean,"  she  says.     "  True  gratitude,  in  the  very  ful- 
ness of  its  soul,  knows  not  the  limits  of  its  debt ;  but  when 
it  weighs  each  little  gift,  books  down  each  passing  courtesy, 
it  ceases  to  be  gratitude,  and  sinks  to  calculation.     Why,  I 
hope  I  am  grateful  for  the  flowers  at  my  feet ;  but  I  were 
most  unworthy  of  their  sweetness  could  I  coldly  sit  me  down 
to  count  them."     But  Miss  Tucker  is  incurable.     She  owns 
she  has  the  best  bedroom,  but  she  is  persuaded  that  Floren- 
tine's will  be  the  warmer  one  in  the  winter ;  she  has  the 
best  seat  at  the  fireplace  ;  she  knows  it  was  kind  of  Floren- 
tine to  give  her  a  new  gown,  though,  if  she  (Miss  Tucker) 
had  gone  to  the  mercer's  with  her  own  money,  'tis  the  very 
last  colour  she  should  have  thought  of.     Next  Miss  Tucker 
congratulates   her  pupil  upon  having  picked  the  baronet's 
nephew  from  her  heart,  like  a  crooked  letter  from  a  sampler. 
"  Sure  'twas  an  easy  task,"  says  gentle  Florentine,  "  for  five 
long  years  ;  and  there's  not  a  clay  I  haven't  worked  at  it."    Sir 
Gilbert  meets  Florentine  sketching  ;  a  thunder-storm  comes 
on  ;  she  accepts,  with  Miss  Tucker,  the  shelter  of  his  roof; 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE  STAGE.        1G1 

he  falls  in  love,  and  then  Clarence  suddenly  turns  up  la 
England.  Stung  by  bis  long  silence,  Florentine  has  accepted 
Sir  Gilbert,  who  has  offered  her  marriage,  careless  of  her 
origin.  Comes  the  retribution.  Clarence  returns  to  find  Ins 
uncle  in  his  place.  Sir  Gilbert  has  told  Florentine  that  Clarence 
weds  another.  The  baronet  does  not  know  that  she  is  the 
baker's  daughter,  however  ; — the  heroine  of  his  nephew's  esca- 
pade in  Miss  Tucker's  academy.  .Sir  Gilbert  tells  his  nephew 
he  is  himself  about  to  marry  a  girl  of  whose  parentage  he  is 
ignorant ;  but,  says  the  imprisoned  Sir  Gilbert,  "  If,  like  the 
fighting  men  of  Cadmus,  she  was  sprung  from  dragons'  teeth, 
I'd  marry  her."  Then  does  Clarence  ask  an  account  of  his 
uncle.  "  And  now,  Sir  Gilbert  Norman  I  *  *  *  Look 
on  me,  a  disappointed,  blighted  man  ;  look,  and  hear  me. 
Then  ask  your  own  soul  is  this  wise,'  just  1  *  *  *  In  the 
deep  feeling  of  my  fervent  youth  I  gave  my  heart  to  oue 
whose  worth — I  can  avouch  it — was  rich  as  that  fair  lady's, 
soon  to  bless  you.  My  love  for  her  possessed  me  like  my 
blood.  With  iron  hand  you  plucked  me  from  her  ;  bade  me 
know  my  station — know  the  world.  You  said  you'd  teach 
me  both.  With  stony  face  and  icy  sentences  you  schooled 
me.  My  station,  you  told  me,  was  removed  from  the  broad, 
vulgar  way  of  human  dealing.  I  might  observe  the  stir  and 
impulse  of  the  common  million,  but  never  mingle  with  or 
feel  it.  And  then  the  world  !  My  appointed  woidd  num- 
bered some  thousaifds  or  so — no  more  ;  exalted  beings, 
fashioned,  stamped,  and  sent  especially  by  heaven  to  make 
tii is  inner  paradise ;  all  men  without,  mere  tributary  crea- 
tures, things  of  unmixed  dust.  Was  not  this  the  creed  you 
taught  mcl  *  *  *  And  I  was  converted,  or  deemed  so, 
from  the  ignorance  that  blessed  me  ;  and  so  I  soon  forgot 
the  humble  maid  that  loved  me,  and  dead  in  heart,  yet  var- 
nished with  outside  courtesy,  became  the  pulseless  thing  you 
wished  me.  *  *  *  What  lesson,  next,  sir,  shall  I  con  to 
please   you  ?  "     Sir  Gilbert  answers,  "  This   lesson — marry 

M 


162  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

her ! "  There  is  a  struggle  with  the  old  baronet  when  he 
discovers  that  his  own  Florentine  is  his  nephew's  baker's 
daughter ;  but  he  is  magnanimous  in  the  end,  and  gives 
her  up.  Then  the  Professor  and  Miss  Tucker  resolve 
upon  marriage  ;  as  upon,  scholastically,  having  girls  and 
boys. 

In  Mr.  Dickens,  Douglas  Jerrold  found  a  warm  and  critical 
admirer.  Writing  to  his  friend  in  1845,  and  of  Time  Works 
Wonders,  Mr.  Dickens  said  :  "  I  am  greatly  struck  by  the 
whole  idea  of  the  piece.  The  elopement  in  the  beginning, 
and  the  consequences  that  flow  from  it,  and  their  delicate 
and  masterly  exposition,  are  of  the  freshest,  truest,  and  most 
vigorous  kind ;  the  characters,  especially  the  governess, 
among  the  best  I  know  ;  and  the  wit  and  the  wisdom  of  it  are 
never  asunder.  I  could  almost  find  it  in  my  own  heart  to 
sit  down  and  write  you  a  long  letter  on  the  subject  of  this 
play ;  but  I  vron't.  I  will  only  thank  you  for  it  heartily, 
and  add  that  I  agree  with  you  in  thinking  it  incomparably 
the  best  of  your  dramatic  writings." 

Five  years  passed,  after  the  appearance  of  Time  Works 
Wondei's,  before  Douglas  Jerrold  again  appeared  to  the 
public  as  a  dramatist.  Other  occupations,  at  once  more 
profitable  and  more  congenial  in  the  then  state  of  theatrical 
matters,  occupied  the  interval.  He  had  removed  from  his 
cottage  in  Park  Village  East,  Regent's  Park,  in  1845,  to 
West  Lodge,  Putney  Lower  Common,  wdiere  he  was  destined 
to  spend  the  next  nine  years  ;  and  these,  perhaps,  the  most 
prosperous,  the  sunniest,  of  his  life.  But  his  home  at  Putney 
forms  the  subject  of  a  separate  chapter.  I  hold  here  to  an 
exposition  of  his  further  connection  with  the  stage,  and  to 
his  ultimate  abandonment  of  it.  In  the  very  year  in  which 
Time  Works  Wonders  appeared  my  father  started  his  Shilling 
Magazine :  in  the  following  year  he  became  editor  and  chief 
proprietor  of  Douglas  Jen-old's  Weekly  Nempci2ier ;  in  1848 
lie  was  in  Paris,  watching  the  progress  of  the  revolution  for 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING   OF  THE   STAGE.        1G3 

his  journal.  His  contributions  to  Punch  through  these  years 
were  copious  and  most  popular.  "Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain 
Lectures,"  "  The  Story  of  a  Feather,"  and  "  Punch's  Letters 
to  his  Son  "  had  appeared.  Hard  work  was  done,  it  will  be 
seen,  even  in  the  midst  of  a  large  and  splendid  (intellec- 
tually) circle  of  friends. 

In  1850  he  was  tempted  once  again  behind  the  footlights. 
He  came  with  The  Catspaw,  a  comedy  in  five  acts.  The 
characters  in  this  piece  were  Dr.  Petgoose,  the  quack,  played 
by  Mr.  J.  Wallack  ;  poor  Mr.  Snowball,  the  victim,  the 
Catspaw,  interpreted  by  Mr.  Keeley ;  Mrs.  Peachdown,  the 
smooth,  the  smiling,  most  velvety  widow,  with  the  finest 
claws,  played  by  Miss  Pieyuolds.  This  piece  was  accepted 
by  the  literary  world  as  a  brilliant,  ill  set.  There  was,  it 
was  said,  no  pleasant  interest  in  the  piece.  Mr.  Webster,  who 
impersonated  a  swindler  in  thi-ee  disguises,  was  excellent. 
Mr.  Wallack  was  an  imposing  quack  ;  but  the  play  did  not 
run  like  Time  Works  Wonders.  It  wanted  the  charming  love- 
story  of  this  comedy.  Every  character  in  The  Catspaw 
repels.  In  Time  Works  Wonders  Florentine  and  Clarence, 
and  Bessy  and  Felix  attract,  and  their  fortunes  touch  the 
heart  of  the  audience.  Dr.  Petgoose  is  the  originator  of  the 
Paradise  Pill — a  pill,  he  declares,  he  might  have  stood  upon, 
like  Mercury  on  the  globe — "a  pill  that,  at  the  present 
moment,  is  daily  bread  to  thousands."  He  is  also  the  author 
of  an  indignant  book  entitled  "  Pearls  to  Pigs."  And,  re- 
ferring constantly  to  these  splendid  claims  upon  the  gratitude 
of  mankind,  he  orders  Snowball  to  yield  him  unquestioned 
obedience.  "I  know  your  system,"  the  doctor  says  to  his 
patient.  "  Really  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  life,  you  should 
have  no  more  emotion  than  an  oyster."  Snowball's  lawyer 
tells  him — ostensibly  in  Mrs.  Peachdown's  interest — that  he 
may  test  the  sincerity  of  her  lover,  Burgonet ;  that  the  will 
which  leaves  money  to  Mrs.  Peachdown,  and  in  which  \u}, 
Snowball,   conceives  lie   is   wronged,  can   be   settled    in  two 

m  2 


1G4  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

ways — by  Chancery  or  marriage.  Snowball  asks  the  doctor's 
advice.  Petgoose  rather  leans  to  matrimony,  on  the  prin- 
ciple that  while  there's  life  there's  hope.  "  True,"  responds 
Snowball.  "  In  all  the  wedding-cake,  hope  is  the  sweetest 
of  the  plums."  But  he  has  a  very  limited  admiration  of 
wedlock,  and  seeks  a  compromise.  He  suggests  that  the 
widow  should  be  thrown — gently,  tenderly — into  Chancery  ; 
and  that  then,  if  he  finds  the  suit  going  against  him,  he 
can  but  marry  her  after  all.  The  suit  is  to  be  no  more 
vindictive  than  a  game  at  chess.  "With  this  advantage," 
responds  Audley ;  "  when  you  find  you're  losing,  you  can 
make  it  all  right  by  playing  a  bishop."  And  so  Mrs. 
Peachdown,  it  is  arranged,  is  to  be  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty  " 
of  the  court  of  Chancery.  Coolcard  also  practises  upon 
Snowball's  belief  in  a  second  will,  and  the  fluctuations  of 
the  Chancery  suit,  throughout  the  piece.  The  minor  cha- 
racters are  a  lawyer's  clerk  and  his  sweetheart.  Even 
Rosemary  the  maid  has  a  suitor.  "  You  a  lover ! "  says 
Cassandra.  "  Why  not  1 "  retorts  pert  Rosemary.  "  Thank 
goodness  !  love's  like  the  flies,  and,  drawing-room  or  garret, 
goes  all  over  a  house."  Appleface,  the  drummer,  is  Rose- 
mary's lover,  with  an  eye,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  the  dishes 
and  deciinters.  His  story  is  soon  told.  He  was  a  lawyer's 
clerk  ;  but,  having  made  a  joke  one  day,  his  master  turned 
him  off,  saying  "  law  was  too  big  a  thing  ;  no  man  with  any 
other  stuff  in  his  head  had  room  for  it."  So  Appleface 
left  the  law,  enlisted,  and  became  a  drummer.  "  'Twas  only,'' 
he  tells  Cassandra,  "  a  move  from  one  parchment  to  t'other ; 
and  which  of  the  two  makes  the  most  row  in  this  world 
nobody  can  tell."  Mrs.  Peachdown  is  smitten  with  the 
middle  ages — wants  to  see  John  Bull  grow  little  into  John 
Calf ;  yet  Burgonet,  while  he  looks  upon  the  passion  as  vast 
folbr,  loves  to  hear  her  talk  about  it.  He  says  that  "  she's 
as  high  above  the  world,  ay,  as  a  skylark  when  it  sings  the 
loudest."     Her  extinct   old  virtues  are  "some  of  'em  like 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE   STAGE.        1G5 

extiuct  volcanoes,  with  a  strong  memory  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone. Why,  with  her  the  world  as  it  is,  is  a  second-hand 
world — a  world  all  the  worse  for  wear.  The  sun  itself  isn't 
the  same  sun  that  illuminated  the  darling  middle  ages, 
but  a  twinkling  end  of  sun — the  sun  upon  a  save-all. 
And  the  moon — the  moon  that  shone  on  Coeur-de-Lion's 
battle-axe — ha !  that  was  a  moon.  Now  our  moon  at  the 
brightest,  what  is  it  ?  A  dim,  dull,  counterfeit  moon — a 
pewter  shilling."  Mrs.  Peachdown  languishes  for  the  good 
old  times — would  run  away  with  Captain  Burgonet  to- 
morrow, if  he  would  carry  her  off  in  a  bridal  suit  of  chain 
armour.  But  alas  for  Mrs.  P. !  "  we  live  in  twopenny  times, 
when  chivalry  goes  to  church  in  the  family  coach,  and  the 
god  of  rnairiage  bargains  for  his  wedding  breakfast."  Cool- 
card  explains  his  villanies  :  Honest  bread  is  very  well — it's 
the  butter  that  makes  the  temptation." 

This  piece,  I  repeat,  did  not  take  the  town  like  Time 
Works  Wonders.  Still  it  had  some  success ;  indeed,  success 
enough  to  encourage  the  author  to  proceed  at  once  with 
another  comedy,  and  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of  finding 
a  stage  for  another  piece  without  having  recourse  to  threats 
of  "  your  stage  or  my  journal."  I  should  explain  that  about 
this  time  appeared  the  "  Autobiography  of  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt." 
Douglas  Jerrold  had  always  spoken  enthusiastically  of  the 
old  editor  of  the  Examiner  ;  he  had  even  received  a  letter  of 
thanks  from  him,  not  long  before  the  time  to  which  I  am  now 
referring,  for  a  notice  of  the  "Jar  of  Honey  from  Mount 
Hybla " — a  most  charming,  sunny  book,  to  be  read  under 
shady  trees  in  autumn  afternoons.  He  had  seen  Mr.  Hunt 
with  unaffected  pleasure  at  West  Lodge,  and  had  passed 
the  wine  to  him  under  the  famous  mulberry  tree  on  the 
lawn.  He  could  call  to  mind  no  slight,  no  wrong  he  had 
done  the  veteran  Liberal  knight ;  he  could  summon  up,  on 
the  contrary,  only  the  compliments  he  had  heartily  paid 
him.     He  had  reason  to  believe  that  Mr.  Hunt  and  he  were 


166  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

friends.     Lying  amongst  his  papers  was  a  graceful  note  from 
the  old  Examiner  editor  beginning  "  Jerroldo  mio  ! '' 

The  "  Autobiography  "  appeared.  It  shocked  my  father, 
even  before  he  came  to  the  passage  in  which  Mr.  Hunt  did 
him  the  honour  to  throw  some  little  spiteful  darts  at  him. 
To  see  all  the  glorious  outspeaking  of  the  Regency  with- 
drawn ;  to  see  the  noble  soul  that  burned  in  the  young 
man  quenched,  ignored,  in  the  evening  of  life  ;  to  look  in 
this  evening  upon  a  dull,  flat  waste,  was  sad,  dispiriting  work 
for  men  who  at  sunrise  had  feasted  upon  the  great  glories  of 
the  earth.  But  when  Mr.  Hunt  pointed  his  cold  finger  to 
Douglas  Jerrold,  the  dramatist  took  a  pen,  and  wrote  these 
words  : — 

' '  There  are  two  passages  in  the  '  Autobiography  of  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt '  that,  in  my  opinion,  singularly  lack  that  toleration  and 
charity  which  so  very  aboundingly  distinguish  that  gentleman's 
last  published  account  between  the  world  and  himself.  Mr. 
Hunt,  it  appears,  has  failed  to  obtain  a  stage  for  certain  dramas 
which  he  has  written.  Managers  reject  them  because,  according 
to  the  implied  reasons  of  Mr.  Hunt,  he  is  not  a  journalist — is 
not  '  one  of  the  leaders  in  Punch.'  Permit  me  to  give  Mr. 
Hunt's  words. 

"'A  manager  confessed  the  other  day  that  he  would  never 
bring  out  a  new  piece,  if  he  could  help  it,  as  long  as  he  could 
make  money  by  an  old  one.  He  laughed  at  eveiy  idea  of  a 
management  but  a  commercial  one,  and  held  at  nought  the 
public  wish  for  novelty,  provided  he  could  get  as  many  persons 
to  come  to  his  theatre  as  would  fill  it.  Being  asked  why  he 
brought  out  any  new  pieces,  when  such  were  his  opinions,  he 
complained  that  people  connected  with  the  press  forced  the  com- 
positions of  themselves  and  their  friends  upon  him ;  and,  being 
asked  what  he  meant  by  forced,  he  replied  that  the  press  would 
make  a  dead  set  at  his  theatre  if  he  acted  otherwise,  and  so  ruin 
him.' 

"  Then  follows  the  subjoined  note  in  the  index  : — 

"  '  Owing  to  an  accident  of  haste  at  the  moment  of  going  to 
press,  the  following  remark  was  omitted  after  the  words  so  ruin 
him: — I  know  not,  it  is  true,  how  far  a  manager  might  not 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING   OF  THE   STAGE.        1G7 

rather  have  invited  than  feared  a  dramatist  of  so  long  a  standing 
and  of  such  groat  popularity  as  Douglas  Jerrold ;  but  it  is  to  be 
doubted  whether  even  Douglas  Jerrold,  with  all  his  popularity, 
and  all  his  wit  to  boot,  would  have  found  the  doors  of  a  theatre 
opened  to  him  with  so  much  facility,  had  he  not  been  a  journalist 
and  one  of  the  leaders  in  Punch.' 

"  "Within  the  last  five  years  I  have  written  two  comedies,  both 
produced  by  Mr.  Webster— as  Mr.  Hunt  would  imply — in  timid 
deference  to  the  journalist  and  one  of  the  leaders  in  Punch;  Mr. 
Hunt,  moreover,  assuming  that  the  dramatist,  as  one  of  the 
aforesaid  leaders,  would  have  used  his  pen  as  a  poisoned  quill 
against  the  interests  of  the  denying  manager.  I  will  not  trust 
myself  with  a  full  expression  of  the  scorn  that  arises  within  me 
at  this  surprising  assumption  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt, 
who,  it  is  clear  to  me,  with  all  his  before-the-curtain  experience, 
knows  little  of  the  working  of  a  theatre ;  otherwise  he  would 
readily  allow  that  the  treasurer  is  the  really  potent  critic ; — the 
night's  and  week's  returns  at  the  doors,  not  the  morning  or 
weekly  article,  the  allowed  theatrical  voucher  to  the  value  of  the 
dramatist.  Yet,  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Hunt,  it  is  the  despotism 
of  the  play-writer,  when  connected  with  a  journal,  that  forces 
on  a  manager  the  acceptance  of  a  comedy ;  moreover,  condemn- 
ing him  to  act  the  unprofitable  production  some  ninety  successive 
nights ;  the  audience,  it  would  seem,  bowing  to  the  tyrannous 
infliction  of  the  play  in  deference  to  the  journalist,  one  of  the 
leaders  in  Punch. 

' '  Before  I  was  out  of  my  teens  it  was  my  misfortune  to  be 
compelled  to  write  for  the  minor  theatres,  at  a  time  when  even 
large  success  at  these  despised  places— degraded  by  a  monopoly 
that  has  ceased  to  exist — was  most  injurious  to  the  endeavours 
of  the  young  dramatist  desirous  of  obtaining  an  original  hearing 
at  the  patent  houses,  which,  at  the  time,  and  in  the  treasury 
stress,  were  making  free  use  of  the  very  '  minor '  drama  of  the 
ui; acknowledged  aspirant.  I  have  served  full  three  apprentice- 
's to  the  English  drama,  and,  though  even  its  best  rewards 
haply  fall  very  short  of  the  profits  of  a  master  cotton-spinner, 
they  have  never,  in  my  case,  I  can  assure  Mr.  Hunt,  been  levied 
on  the  fears  of  a  manager,  with  a  threat  of  '  Your  stage  or  my 
journal.' 

"  With  every  wish  to  maintain  an  esteem  for  Mr.  Hunt  as  a 
writer — an  esteem  that  dates  from  my  earliost  boyhood — I  must 


168  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

protest  against  his  painstaking  use  of  my  dramatic  success — such 
as  it  has  been — as  an  illustration  of  the  injustice  set  down  to 
Mr.  Hunt's  old  brotherhood  of  journalists,  namely,  that  they 
would  make  'a  dead  set'  against  any  manager  who  should  refuse 
to  risk  his  treasury  on  their  stage  experiments.  An  odd  com- 
pliment this,  at  parting,  from  the  first  editor  of  the  Examiner  to 
the  journalists  of  1850.  It  is  a  pity  that,  in  the  summing  up  of 
his  literary  life — a  life  that  has  been  valuable  to  letters  and  to 
liberty — Mr.  Hunt  should  have  sought  the  cause  of  his  own 
stage  disappointments  in  the  fancied  stage  tyranny  and  mean- 
ness of  others.  Pity  that  his  ink,  so  very  sweet  in  every  other 
page  of  his  'Autobiography,'  should  suddenly  curdle  in  the  page 
dramatic. 

"July  4th,  1850." 

This  letter  appeared  in  the  Athencettm.  With  bitter  dis- 
appointment, the  writer  took  books  that  had  lain  (precious 
volumes  !)  upon  his  shelves  for  twenty  years,  and  cast  them 
away.  He  could  no  longer  believe  in  them.  One  of  the 
idols  of  his  youth  had  been  smitten  in  the  face  ;  the  majesty 
of  its  countenance  had  been  blurred,  begrimed ;  and  he 
would  henceforth  rather  hold  it  in  his  memory,  as  in  his 
early  time  he  saw  it,  than  dwell  upon  its  present  graceless 
lines.  Leigh  Hunt  was  dead  to  Douglas  Jen-old,  who  had 
loved  him,  and  had  been  proud  to  press  his  hand.  He  had 
written  from  Sark  to  Mr.  John  Fovster  only  in  1847  :  "I 
received  a  letter  from  Hunt.  Should  you  meet  on  Saturday 
— indeed,  I  will  make  it  a  case  that  you  do ;  and  about  six 
will — here  in  Sark — take  wine  with  both  of  you.  Tell  him 
this,  and  believe  me  ever  yours,  Douglas  Jerrold."  * 

*  Both  are  now  gone  to  their  rest :  it  is  pleasant  to  think  long  after 
this  feud  was  hushed,  and  driven  out  of  their  minds.  I  met  Mr.  Hunt  at 
my  father's  table  afterwards.  On  the  day  of  my  father's  funeral,  Mr. 
Hunt  wrote  to  Mr.  Dickens: — "Knowing  the  interest  you  take  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Jerrold  family,  and  thinking  it  likely  that  you  will  be 
requested  by  them  to  take  the  lead  in  the  proceedings  of  to-day,  this  comes 
to  ask  you  to  be  kind  enough  to  tell  those  friends  of  theirs  who  were  so 
good  as  to  send  me  one  of  the  circulars  of  invitation,  to  the  funeral,  how 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE   STAGE.        169 

In  May,  1851,  Retired  from  Business,  a  comedy  in  three 
acts,  appeared  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre.  The  dramatist 
had  here  touched  upon  new  ground  for  his  satire.  In  the 
village  of  Pumpkinfield  various  thriving  retired  trades  are 
located,  with  some  old  sailors,  of  course,  to  give  wholesome 
salt  to  the  village  life.  For  the  war  of  the  wholesales  against 
the  retails — "  the  pale  spectrum  "  of  the  till  set  between  the 
counting-house  and  the  shop — wants  some  wholesome  human 
life  at  hand  to  make  the  wretched  vanities  of  successful 
trade  bearable.  Lieutenant  Tackle,  as  he  was  excellently 
played  for  a  few  nights  by  Mr.  J.  Wallack,  was  the  light  and 
warmth  of  the  atmosphere — the  antidote  to  the  poisonous 
tongues  of  the  village — the  goodly  plant  in  so  much  social 
rottenness.  The  Pennyweights  represent  the  retired  retails. 
Mrs.  Pennyweight  is  the  leader  of  the  vulgarities  of  her  class 
. — the  stickler  for  conspicuous  coats-of-arms — the  lady  with  a 
solemn  horror  of  the  shop  whence  her  husband's  fortune  has 
oeen  obtained  ;  while  her  husband,  a  simple  tradesman,  con- 
tinually lapses  to  his  old  ways,  and  reminds  Mrs.  P.,  in  the 
midst  of  her  ostentatious  finery,  that  his  motto  has  always 
been  "  conscious  virtue  and  cold  mutton."  Pennyweight  is 
disgusted  to  learn  that  his  spouse  has  hired  a  footman.  "  We 
must  do  it,  dearest,"  says  Mrs.  P.  "  In  Pumpkinfield  you're 
out  of  life  if  you're  out  of  livery."  Pennyweight,  to  keep 
himself  humble,  will  treasure  the  card  he  used  when  he  first 

sensible  I  am  of  the  honour  done  me,  and  how  sorry  that  the  state  of  my 
health  hiuders  me  from  availing  myself  of  it.  You  know  how  impossibje 
I  have  found  it,  for  the  last  four  months,  to  take  my  sorry  cough  and 
expectoration  with  me  to  the  houses  of  friends  whom  I  most  wished  to 
visit ;  and  though  I  am  better,  and  beginning  to  hope  that  the  summer 
■will  yet  set  me  up  again,  I  am  still  unable  to  venture  farther  from  home 
than  a  walk  in  its  neighbourhood. 

"All  who  ever  heard  me  say  anything  of  Douglas  Jerrold  know  how  I 
admired  his  wit  and  public  spirit,  and  what  attachment  I  considered  due 
to  his  heart;  and  though  my  attendance  on  the  present  occasion  would  on 
more  than  one  account  have  been  very  trying  to  me,  nothing  should  have 
hindeied  it  but  the  infirmities  of  which  I  speak." 


170  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERGOLD. 

went  into  business  :  "  Zachary  Pennyweight,  Camomile  Street, 
Greengrocer.  Carpets  Beat,  and  Dinners  punctually  at' 
tended."  Now  Puffins,  "  the  great  Russia  merchant  as  was," 
calls  on  the  Fitzpennyweights  (Mrs.  P.  has  added  a  Fitz  to 
her  name) ;  whereupon  the  ex -greengrocer  tries  to  give  his 
trade  card  to  the  visitor,  but  is  prevented  by  Mrs.  Fitz. 
Puffins  explains  that  the  billocracy  cannot  mix  with  the 
tillocracy.  Fitzpennyweight  catches  the  Russia  merchant's 
idea  :  "  Raw  wool  doesn't  speak  to  halfpenny  ball  of  worsted, 
tallow  in  the  cask  looks  down  upon  sixes  to  the  pound,  and 
pig  iron  turns  up  its  nose  at  tenpenny  nails."  But  love 
laughs  at  billocracy  and  tillocracy.  Kitty  Pennyweight  and 
Paul  Puffin  come  together :  the  tenpenny  nail,  melted  in 
Cupid's  fire,  mixes  with  the  pig  iron.  Creepmouse,  too,  a 
retired  army  tailor,  is  horrified  to  learn  that  his  nephew  has 
slipped  into  love — "  love  in  the  mud  " — well,  he  must  blurt 
out  the  horrid  truth — with  a  governess  ! 

The  second  act,  where  Gunn  and  Tackle  gossip,  and  Amy 
appears,  is  a  refreshing  contrast  to  Act  I.,  where  the  Penny- 
weights and  Puffins  figure.  Tackle  is  a  true  sailor.  "  Self- 
respect  !"  he  cries,  "  why,  it's  the  ballast  of  the  ship.  Without 
it,  let  the  craft  be  what  she  will,  she's  but  a  fine  sea-coffin  at 
the  best."  Gunn  describes  his  dead  brother-in-law,  whose 
orphan  Amy  is  :  "  Joe,  there  never  was  a  finer  fellow  than 
Charley  Brand.  Nature  made  him  on  a  field  day."  Tackle 
calls  an  avei'age  crop  in  his  garden  "  enough  for  the  birds, 
enough  for  the  boys,  and  enough  for  the  master."  Amy,  to 
Tackle's  enthusiastic  heart,  is  "a  lord  high  admiral  of  a 
woman ! " 

Gunn  speaks  of  the  moral  of  the  comedy.  "  Life  has  its 
duties  ever  ;  none  wiser,  better,  than  a  manly  disregard 
of  false  distinctions,  made  by  ignorance,  maintained  by 
weakness.  Resting  from  the  activities  of  life,  we  have 
yet  our  daily  task — the  interchange  of  simple  thoughts 
and   gentle  doings.     When,  following  those  already  passed, 


COMEDIES— LEAT- E-TAKIXG   OF  THE   STAGE.        171 

we   rest    beneath    the    shadow  of  yon  distant   spire,  then, 
and   only  then,  may  it  be  said  of  us,  '  Retired  from  Busi- 


ness. 


Vexatious  conduct  on  the  part  of  actors  turned  the  author 
of  this  comedy  once  more,  in  no  good  humour,  from  the 
stage.  Again  and  again  had  he  declared  that  he  had  done 
with  the  drama.  Looking  around,  where  could  an  artist's 
eye  see  a  decently  organised  company  ?  I  am  writing  too 
near  the  years  to  which  I  refer  to  speak  plain  words — to 
give  plain  facts.  It  is  my  hope  that,  from  Chapter  I.  to  the 
Finis  of  this  book,  there  will  not  be  one  word  to  wound  a 
living  creature.  From  the  truth  I  need  not  wander ;  but  I 
may  put  some  truths  aside  as  not  yet  to  be  told.  I  hold 
back,  with  a  jealous  hand,  much  that  would  be  welcome  food 
to  the  simply  curious,  because  there  are  men  living  whose 
written  words  are  sacred  till  they  or  theirs  shall  claim  them. 
I  may  simply  state  that,  in  bitter  disappointment,  Douglas 
Jerrold  again  turned  from  the  stage — cast  burning  sarcasms 
at  the  star  system,  that  degraded  dramatic  literature  ;  for  he 
had  hoped  here  to  make  a  solid  hold  upon  the  people. 

"  There  is  hardly  a  sadder  feeling,''  he  wrote,  "  than  that 
which  arises  from  a  contrast  of  our  early  ennobling  aspira- 
tions, our  proud  vauntings  of  invulnerability,  and  our 
trumpet-tongued  defiance  of  all  threats  and  blandishments  to 
win  us  from  the  one  great  purpose  of  our  soul,  with  our 
final  miserable  realities,  our  low  confessions  of  weakness,  our 
small-voiced  defence  of  the  fear  or  the  wile  that  has  tempted 
us  from  the  highway  which  we  thought  would  lead  to  all 
things.  How  few  are  there  who,  starting  in  youth  animated 
by  great  motives,  do  not  at  thirty  seem  to  have  suffered  a 
1  second  fall ! '  What  angel-purposes  did  they  woo,  and  what 
hag-realities  have  they  married  !  What  Rachels  have  they 
thought  to  serve  for,  and  what  Leahs  has  the  morning 
dawned  upon  !" 

I  might  fill  pages  with  anecdotes  illustrative  of  the  disap- 


172  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

pointment  my  father  felt  when  he  saw  companies  broken  up, 
and  theatres  filled  with  so  many  dummies  to  so  many  stars. 
His  vexation  broke  out  in  sharp  points  that  are  remembered 
still  in  theatrical  circles.  Here  are  one  or  two  : — When 
Morris  had  the  Haymarket  theatre,  the  dramatist,  on  a 
certain  occasion,  had  reason  to  find  fault  with  the  strength, 
or  rather  the  want  of  strength,  of  the  company.     Moms 

expostulated,  and  said,  "  Why,  there's  V ;  he  was  bred 

on  these  boards  ! "  Reply.  "  He  looks  as  though  he'd  been 
cut  out  of  them."  "  Do  you  know,"  said  a  friend  to  my 
father,  "that  Jones  has  left  the  stage  and  turned  wine- 
merchant  1 "  Reply.  "  0  yes  ;  and  I  am  told  that  his  wine 
off  the  stage  is  better  than  his  whine  on  it."  When  Macbeth 
was  played,  many  years  ago,  at  the  Coburg  Theatre,  a  certain 
actor  was  cast,  to  his  great  disgust,  for  Macduff.  He  told 
his  bitter  disappointment  to  the  author  of  Black-Eyed 
Susan,  who  thus  consoled  him  :  "  Never  mind,  my  good 
fellow  ;  there's  one  advantage  in  playing  Macduff — it  keeps 
you  out  of  Banquo." 

The  translator  also  was  often  assailed.  Douglas  Jerrold 
was  always  nervous  during  the  first  representation  of  his 
pieces.  On  one  of  these  first  nights  a  very  successful  trans- 
planter from  the  French  rallied  the  nervous  dramatist.  "  I," 
said  the  soothing  gentleman,  "  I  never  feel  nervous  on  the 
first  night  of  my  pieces."  Reply.  "  Ah  !  my  boy,  you  are 
always  certain  of  success.  Your  pieces  have  always  been 
tried  before." 

Two  years  passed  away, — active  years,  in  which  his  com- 
pletest  work  [A  Man  Made  of  Money)  was  written,  and  in 
the  course  of  which  he  undertook  the  conduct  of  that  news- 
paper which  was  destined,  under  his  editorship,  to  grow 
into  a  political  power, — befoi'e  he  turned  again  to  the  stage. 
He  was  still  a  weekly  contributor  to  Punch,  and  every  day 
had  its  hours  devoted  to  writing  that  might  not  be  put  off. 
Still,  in  1853,  he  was  tempted  back  to  the  theatre,  and,  on 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE  STAGE.        173 

the  21st  of  January  in  this  year,  St.  Cupid;  or  Dorothy 's 
Fortune,  a  comedy  in  three  acts,  was  originally  acted  before 
her  Majesty  at  Windsor  Castle — a  performance,  it  is  right 
to  add,  which  the  author  was  not  invited  to  attend.  But 
English  authors  have  not  yet,  it  would  appear,  proved  them- 
selves worthy  of  an  obscure  corner,  on  any  occasion,  in  any 
ante-room,  of  Buckingham  Palace  or  Windsor. 

The  scenes  of  this  comedy  are  London  and  Kensington — 
the  date  is  1715.  The  story  is  a  homely  one — of  a  noble 
gentleman  who  visits  a  school,  disguised  as  a  tutor,  to  see 
the  schoolmaster's  daughter,  and  remains  to  wed.  Sir 
Valentine  May,  the  hero  of  this  escapade,  is  the  secretary 
to  Mr.  Under-Secretary  Zero.  The  time,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, is  when  London  was  alarmed  about  the  Pretender. 
And  as  Sir  Valentine  looks  over  the  morning  letters  he  wisely 
says,  "  Well,  that  government  is  still  the  safest  which  makes 
treason  laughable."  He  is  rebuked  by  the  under-secretary, 
who  sniffs  treason  in  a  doll-maker's  invoice,  and  powder  iu 
an  order  for  Scotch  snuff.  Valentine  cannot  follow  his 
uncle,  but  observes  that  "  daylight's  wasted  upon  a  man  who 
can  see  so  much  better  in  the  dark."  One  of  the  letters 
secretly  opened  is  to  Dorothy  Budd,  the  schoolmaster's 
daughter,  describing  the  promises  of  a  fortune-teller  (Queen 
Bee,  originally  played  by  Mr.  Wright).  Valentine's  curio- 
sity is  aroused,  and  he  resolves  upon  the  frolic  that  ends  in 
marriage.  "Dorothy — the  Lilacs!"  Valentine  muses  ;  "and 
now  are  there  half  a  dozen  faces  nodding  at  me  like  roses 
from  a  bush  ;  and  which — which  is  Dorothy's  ?  Blue  eyes, 
with  love"s  simplicity ;  or  subtle,  tantalising  hazel  1  A  cheek 
like  a  carnation,  or  face  of  peach-like  brown  ?  Tut !  some 
buxom  wench  agog  for  blind-man's-buff  or  hunt  the  slipper. 
Dorothy — the  Lilacs  !  The  syllables  sound  like  a  story. 
And  her  letter !  Why  do  I  remember  it  ?  I,  with  no 
more  memory  than  a  fly ;  and  yet  my  brain,  like  so 
much     blotting-paper,    has   drunk    up    every    word — every 


171  LIFE  OP  DOUGLAS  JEBKOLD. 

word.     Dorothy — the   Lilacs!     I'll  see  this  linnet  in  her 

bash  ? " 

Dorothy  is  the  homeliest  even  of  linnets.     "  Let  me,"  she 

says,  "  but  twitter  round  my  nest  of  clay,  and  sing  who  will 

in  a  cage  of  geld." 

•Queen  Bee  bells  her  that,  when  she  was  made  a  woman,  a 
mermaid  was  spoiled.  Dorothy  denies  to  Valentine  that  she 
has  a  lover.  But  he  says,  u  Oh,  truth  will  out  Let  the 
tongue  deny  it,  aud  how  prettily  it  flies  to  the  cheek ! 
Happy  lover,  to  live  a  moment  there  in  such  a  blush  !" 

There  were  disappointments  too — theatrical  disappoint- 
ments— connected  with  this  piece,  upon  which  it  would  be 
fruitless  to  dwell.  One  more  comedy,  and  the  stage  and 
the  dramatist  would  part  company  for  ever.  It  was  already 
written.  The  idea  was  a  pet  one,  or  it  was  more  than  pro- 
bable that  St  Cupid  would  have  been  Douglas  Jerrold's  last 
•comedy  given  to  the  stage.  For  he  was  now  thoroughly 
wearied  of  things  theatrical.  Incessantly  he  spoke  and  wrote 
of  the  national  drama — of  what  it  might  be,  aud  the  poor 
thing  it  had  become.  That  which  should  be  the  great  living 
expounder  of  our  English  life  had  become  a  flat  and  weari- 
some reflection  of  the  French  stage,  with  here  and  there 
burlesques  of  the  dramatic  glories  of  the  times  gone  by.  The 
dramatist  had  given  way  to  the  upholsterer  and  the  trans- 
lator. The  author  of  Black-Eyed  Susan  had  been  nearly 
tempted  to  write  another  nautical  piece  ;  but  the  temptation 
had  been  put  aside,  and  on  the  9th  of  October,  1854,  A  Heart 
of  Gold,  a  drama  in  three  acts,  was  performed  for  the  first 
time,  at  the  Princess's  Theatre.  It  was  to  be  its  author's 
last  piece  ;  yet  it  was  produced  under  many  disadvantages — 
the  fruit  of  misunderstandings  with  the  manager — misuuder- 
standiags  on  which  I  will  not  dwell  even  under  strong  pro- 
vocation. Time  will  do  it  justice;  to  time  it  is  left  fearlessly 
by  me,  however  critics  of  the  passing  hour  may  deal  with  it. 

The  scenes  of  this  drama  are  London  and  the  country  — 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE  STAGE.        175 

the  date  is  1750.  The  opening  act  is  at  the  Bear  Inn  on  old 
London  Bridge,  where  the  landlady,  Widow  Peacock,  and 
Michaelmas  are  squabbling  over  bad  money,  which  the  latter 
has  taken  in  the  course  of  the  day's  business.  Michaelmas, 
it  is  at  once  clear,  is  in  love  with  Molly  Dindle ;  the  widow, 
it  is  equally  clear,  is  not ;  for  she  says  the  girl  "would  break 
the  Bank  of  England  if  she  put  her  hand  upon  it,"  and  that 
she  goes  about  the  house  "  like  a  gale  of  wind."  Michaelmas 
was  picked  up  in  the  company  of  a  silver  spoon  "  cut  with  a 
roaring  dragon  ;"  and  he  carries  it  about  with  him  in  the 
hopeful  belief  that  it  belongs  "  to  some  family  sis-dozen  in 
noble  life,"  and  that  some  day  he  will  go  back  to  where  he 
was  born.  Maude,  farmer  Nutbrown's  daughter,  has  been 
brought  up  to  London.  Master  Dymond  is  sick  in  love  with 
her,  but  she  loves  Pierce  Thanet.  Dymond  has  a  strong 
man's  agony  when  he  sees  his  love  is  slighted.  In  the  open- 
ing of  the  piece  all  meet  by  chance  at  the  Bear  Inn.  Maude 
has  been  out  sight-seeing.  She  has  been  to  the  top  of  St. 
Paul's. 

"  Oh,  it  was  such  a  dream  by  daylight,"  she  says,  "such  a 
dream;  and  yet  so  true!  All  was  so  little,  and  I  was  still 
the  same  !  All  the  streets  were  millions  of  dolls'  houses ;  and 
along  the  streets  little  specks  moving — moving,  sometimes  in 
twos  and  threes,  and  then  altogether  in  one  long,  black,  gliding 
thread.  And  then  the  cattle  and  the  horses !  I  felt  that  I  could 
take  up  the  biggest  of  them,  like  shrew-mice,  in  my  fingers- 
look  at  'em,  and  set  'em  down  again.  And  then  the  smoke !  The 
beautiful  smoke !  Oh,  in  millions  of  silver  feathers  it  came  from 
the  chimneys  up  and  up,  and  then  somehow  joined  in  one  large 
shining  sheet,  and  went  floating,  floating  over  houses  and  church 
steeples,  with  hundreds  of  golden  weathercocks  glittering,  glit- 
tering through !  And  then  tho  river  and  the  ships !  The 
twisting  water  shining  like  glass !  And  the  poles  of  the  ships 
as  close,  and  straight,  and  sharp  as  rushes  in  a  pond !  And  then, 
far  off,  the  hills,  the  dear  green  hills ;  with  such  a  stir  below, 
and  they  so  beautiful  and  still,  as  though  they  never  heard,  and 
never  cared  fur  the  noise  of  London — a  noise  that,  when  we 


176  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

listened,  hummed  from  below — hummed  for  all  the  world  like 
a  hundred  humble-bees,  all  making  honey,  and  all  upon  one 
bush!" 

And  then,  as  Maude  talks  to  Michaelmas  and  the  widow, 
we  see  a  bit  of  the  author's  own  sadness  drop.  Maude 
declares  that  she  must  see  "  Mr.  Garrick  and  the  wax-work." 
But  she  is  told  that  she  cannot  see  all — that  she  must  choose. 
"  Well,"  replies  Maude,  with  womanly  logic,  "I  should  like  to 
see  Mr.  Garrick  ;  but  I  will  see  the  wax-work." 

The  sad  story  of  strong  Dymond's  unrequited  love  makes 
the  thrilling  interest  of  the  piece.  Dying,  as  he  believes,  he 
gives  his  thousand  guineas  to  Pierce,  the  son  of  his  early 
friend,  not  knowing  Pierce  is  his  rival.  He  bids  him  hold 
the  gold  "  with  a  ferret's  tooth."  He  bids  him  cherish  this 
thought  :  "  He  who  has  guineas  for  his  subjects  is  the  king 
of  men  !"  Dymond  recovers,  and  asks  back  his  gold,  seeing 
Pierce  about  to  wed  Maude ;  but  Pierce  has  learned  Dymond's 
lesson,  and  demurs,  showing  the  ferret's  tooth.  Maude» 
however,  marries  not  the  man  who  holds  Dymond's  gold. 
Pierce,  after  a  fierce  conflict  with  himself  (knowing  that 
Nutbrown  will  not  give  Maude  to  a  beggar),  casts  back  the 
gold,  when  Maude,  indignant  with  him,  has  almost  promised 
to  be  Dymond's  wife.  The  end  —  Maude's  marriage  with 
Pierce.  And  heart-broken  Dymond  says,  "  Bless  you  both  ! 
And  Pierce,  in  sooth  you'll  wed  to  wealth — the  brightest, 
most  enduring  wealth  ;  a  wealth  still  purified  the  more  'tis 
tested— the  wealth  that  makes  the  only  treasure  of  the 
married  home — A  Heart  of  Gold." 

THE   END. 

The  end  !     Not  another  line  did  Douglas  Jerrold  give  to 

the  stage. 

In  this  chapter  I  have  endeavoured,  by  slight  descriptions 
of  plots,  and  by  culled  morsels  of  dialogue,  to  afford  the 
reader  a  faint  notion  of  what  may  be  found  in  the  comedier 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE  STAGE.        177 

that  bear  my  father's  name.  These  disjecta  membra  can 
give  but  a  very  faint  idea  of  the  complete  works ;  yet  it 
appeared  to  me  that,  in  an  endeavour  to  present  to  the 
world  some  account  of  the  author's  intellectual  life,  such  an 
attempt  as  that  I  have  embodied  in  this  chapter  should  be 
made. 

No  sooner  had  A  Heart  of  Gold  appeared  than  the  author, 
in  Lloyd's  Newspaper,  put  forth  his  explanation  of  its  lame 
production,  and  in  a  few  sad  words  took  his  leave  of  the 
stage.     He  wrote  : — 

"For  obvious  reasons  A  Heart  of  Gold  is  not  a  subject  for 
criticism  in  this  journal.  A  few  facts,  however,  may  be  given 
by  the  author  in  this  his  farewell  to  all  dramatic  doings.  The 
piece  was  written  some  four  years  since  at  the  solicitation  of 
of  Mr.  Charles  Kean,  and  duly  paid  for.  The  hero  and  heroine 
were  to  be  acted  by  himself  and  Mrs.  Charles  Kean.  They  were, 
in  fact,  written  to  be  so  acted. 

"  Subsequently,  however,  Mr.  Kean's  tragic  claims  were 
questioned  in  a  wicked  publication  called  Punch,  and  the  actor 
biruself  graphically  rendered  in  certain  of  his  many  moods  of 
diamatic  inspiration.  Whereupon  Mr.  Charles  Kean  broke  his 
compact  with  the  author  of  A  Heart  of  Gold  ;  he  would  not  play 
bis  hero,  but  find  a  substitute.  A  new  cast  of  characters  was 
proposed,  against  which  the  author  gave  his  written  protest. 
But  Mr.  Charles  Kean  had,  in  1850,  bought  the  drama ;  and 
therefore,  in  his  own  mercantile  way,  conceived  that  in  1854  he 
had  a  right  to  do  what  he  liked  with  his  own  black-and-white 
'  nigger.'  The  author  thought  differently,  and  stood  to  his  pro- 
tect ;  despite  of  which,  however,  on  the  close  of  last  season, 
Mr.  Charles  Kean's  solicitor  informed  the  author's  solicitor 
(there  is  parchment  on  Parnassus  ! )  that  A  Heart  of  Gold  would 
be  produced  at  the  commencement  of  the  present  season.  To 
this  no  answer  was  made.  The  author  had  once  protested,  and 
that  he  thought  sufficient  to  Mr.  Kean  and  to  himself.  Never- 
theless, the  piece  was  put  into  rehearsal ;  and  yet  the  author  had 
no  notice  of  the  fact.  Perhaps  Mr.  Kean  thought  the  author 
might  spontaneously  send  his  solicitor  to  superintend  the  re- 
hearsals, who,  with  Mr.  Kean's  solicitor,  would  settle  writs  of 
error  as  to  readings,   misconceptions,  and  so  forth.     Hud  the 

N 


I7S  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

author  done  so,  even  under  such  professional  revision,  there  had 
doubtless  been  fewer  misdemeanors  against  nature,  good  taste, 
and  propriety. 

"  Yet  it  is  under  such  wilful  injuries  committed  by  a  manage- 
ment that  a  drama  is,  nevertheless,  to  be  buoyant !  It  is  through 
such  a  fog  of  players1  brain  that  the  intention  of  the  author  is  to 
shine  clearly  forth.  With  a  certain  graceful  exception,  there 
never  was  so  much  bad  acting  as  in  A  He<irt  of  Gold.  Never- 
theless, according  to  the  various  printed  reports,  the  piece 
asserted  its  vitality,  though  drugged  and  stabbed,  and  hit  about 
the  head,  as  only  some  players  can  hit  a  play,  hard  and  remorse- 
lessly. 

"Ina  word,  against  the  author's  protest  of  misrepresentation 
was  his  play  flung,  huddled  upon  the  stage,  without  a  single 
stage  revision  allowed  on  his  part.  Solicitors  have  been  alluded 
to ;  but  it  should  be  stated,  legal  interference  was  first  employed 
by  the  author  for  his  self-security.  He  would  have  no  written 
or  personal  communication  with  an  individual  who  had  violated 
the  confidence  of  honourable  minds  by  printing,  '  for  private 
circulation  only,' private  letters;  letters  that — had  the  writer's 
consent  been,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  demanded — might,  for 
bim,  have  been  posted  in  market-places.  It  was  in  consequence 
of  this  meanness  that  the  author,  in  subsequent  correspondence, 
employed  a  solicitor.  For,  in  the  writer's  mind,  it  requires  a 
very  nice  casuistry  to  discover  the  difference  between  picking 
the  confidence  of  a  private  letter  and  picking  a  lock.  To  be 
sure,  there  is  this  difference  in  the  penalties — in  one  case  we 
employ  a  policeman,  in  the  other  contempt." 

This  farewell  was  written  in  most  natural  bitterness  of 
feeling,  and  it  is  only  because  I  know  it  to  be  just  that  I 
print  it 

One  piece,  and  one  only,  by  Douglas  Jerrold,  remains  to 
this  hour,  for  lack  of  a  sufficient  company,  unacted.  It  is  a 
piece  in  five  acts,  and  is  entitled  The  Spendthrift.  It  was 
written  chiefly  in  the  Hampstead  Fields,  while  the  author 
lived  in  Kentish  Town;  the  principal  part  being  intended  for 
Mr.  Macready.  Some  day,  not  very  far  hence,  I  trust  I  shall 
sec  my  way  to  its  fair  representation  on  the  stage. 


COMEDIES- LEAVE-TAKING  OF  THE  STAGE.        179 

Discouraged  though  he  had  been,  even  through  his  suc- 
cesses on  the  stage,  Douglas  Jerrold  bore  from  it  the  grateful 
remembrance  of  many  friends  who  had  been  his  constant  and 
his  eloquent  supporters.  Of  none  amid  these  did  he  think 
with  a  warmer  gratitude  than  of  Mr.  John  Forster,  the 
English  essayist,  and  so  long  and  honourably  connected  with 
newspaper  literature.  So  far  back  as  1833,  as  we  have  seen, 
Mr.  Forster  wrote  encouraging  criticisms  on  Douglas  Jerrold's 
dramatic  genius.  A  letter  acknowledging  the  criticism  on 
The  Housekeeper,  which  had  been  produced  at  the  Haymarket 
on  the  7th  of  July,  1833,  and  dated  three  days  later,  lies 
before  me.  It  is  addressed  from  6,  Seymour  Terrace,  Little 
Chelsea  : — "  You  must  allow  me,"  it  runs,  "  the  pleasure  of 
a  cordial  acknowledgment  of  your  kindness.  Though  I  feel 
you  have,  on  the  present  as  on  a  former  occasion,  thrown 
what  are  the  best  points  into  the  strongest  relief,  by  soften- 
ing down  the  worst,  it  would  be  a  poor  affectation  in  me  to 
question  such  partiality,  as,  indeed,  its  very  existence  is  a 
matter  of,  I  hope,  something  better  on  my  part,  than  mere 
self-complncency.  We  can  none,  or  at  most  very  few, 
escape  the  influence  of  personal  acquaintance.  It  is,  then,  a 
subject  of  honest  pleasure  to  be  obliged  when  such  know- 
ledge, on  some  minds,  is  the  liberal  interpreter  of  good  in- 
tention, and  the  charitable  apologist  of  all  deficiencies." 

In  another  letter  we  light  upon  some  of  the  difficulties 
and  annoyances  that  beset  him  throughout  his  dramatic 
career.  Writing — still  to  Mr.  Forster — from  Thistle  Grove, 
Little  Chelsea,  on  the  26th  of  August,  183-4,  he  says,  "  I  am 
at  law  with  Morris,  having  proceeded  as  far  as  possible  until 
November.  He  refuses  to  pay  me  another  shilling  in  addi- 
tion to  the  <£oU.  We  must  fight  for  it,  and  so  'God  defend 
the  right.'  *  It  will  much  oblige  me,  and  serve  a  true 

fellow  Cone  of  the  right  kind)" — probably  a  playful  allusion 
to  his  non  de  pkime,  Henry  Brownrigg — "if  the  inclosed  be 
rted.      1   have   written   it  in  a   feigned    hand,  as  I   con- 


ISO  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

template  sending  some  articles  to  the  N.  M.  M.  (New  Monthly 
Magazine)  from  myself.  Morris  cooly  informed  me  that  he 
should  never  play  the  Beau  again."  Morris,  it  would  appear, 
had  not  disappointed  the  anticipations  of  the  author  ;  for  I 
find,  in  a  letter  addressed  to  Mr.  Forster  more  than  a  fort- 
night hefore  that  from  which  I  have  just  made  an  extract, 
the  following  allusions  to  Beau  Nash : — 

"  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you  for  the  long,  elaborate,  and 
analytical  essay  in  the  N.  M.  M.  At  this  time  it  may  be  of 
peculiar  service  to  me,  for  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  it 
is  the  intention  of  Mr.  Morris  to  play  me  false.  Last  night 
(August  7th)  the  comedy  was  acted  for  the  tenth  time,  and 
placed  between  two  such  cold  slices  of  bread  and  butter  as  The 
Padlock  and  The  Green-Eyed  Monster.  Nevertheless  the  house 
was  full — the  boxes  crowded ;  and,  if  there  be  truth  in  actors,  the 
piece  went  off  better  than  ever.  Yet,  in  despite  of  its  increasing 
effect,  I  find  by  the  bills  of  to-day  that  it  is  not  to  be  repeated 
until  Wednesday.  Unfortunately,  I  have  no  written  agreement 
with  Morris,  who  was  to  pay  me  on  the  success  of  the  piece, 
which  success  he  now  broadly  insinuates  is  not  evident,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  does  all  that  in  him  lies  to  prevent.  These  are 
your  Christian  managers  !  However,  I  wrote  to  thank  you,  and 
not  to  inflict  upon  you  a  volume  of  the  grief  of 

"Yours  most  truly, 
"  Douglas  Jekrold. 

"  I  have  so  frequently  written  to  you,  appointing  a  day  for 
you  to  come  and  see  me,  that  I  now  leave  the  day  to  your  vwn 
choice.  Name  a  day  next  week;  give  me  forty-eight  hours' 
notice ;  and  bring  with  you  any  such  five  feet  two  of  natural 
dissipation  and  educated  infamy  as  Sam,  the  Joshua  of  the 
True  Sun."* 

On  the  production  of  The  Catspaw  at  the  Haymarket  in 
May,  1850,  the  author  again  turned  to  thank  his  good 
friend  :— 

*  This  allusion  poiuts  to  Laman  Blancliarct,  who  was  then  editing  the 
True  Sun. 


COMEDIES— LEA VE-TAKIXG   OF  THE   STAGE.        181 

' '  My  dear  Foestee, 

"The  success  of  this  play  has,  on  several  accounts, 
been  a  matter  of  much  anxiety  to  me.  I  must  very  heartily 
thank  you  for  the  mode  in  which  you  have  expressed  your 
opinions.  Opinions  themselves  are  no  more  to  be  thanked  than 
the  colour  of  a  man's  eyes — they  are  independent  of  him.  But 
the  careful  and  elaborate  way  in  which  you  have  enjoyed,  as  I 
must  think,  the  setting  forth  of  whatever  may  be  in  the  drama, 
is  as  gratifying  as  valuable  to 

' '  Yours  truly, 

"  D.  Jeeeold. 
"  Do  you  hold  for  Lilies  ?"  * 

Writing  still  to  Mr.  Forster  in  1856,  and  still  acknow- 
ledging a  kindness,  Douglas  Jerrold  says,  "  And  you  leave  it 
(the  Examiner)  I  hear  1  I  hope  for  better  ease,  though  I 
shall  have  one  friend  in  print  (I  hadn't  many)  the  less.  God 
bless  you  ! " 

These  letters  express  a  warmth  of  gratitude,  a  lively  sense 
of  obligation,  for  which  people  who  knew  Douglas  Jerrold 
only  as  a  writer,  were  disinclined  to  give  him  credit.  But 
anything  connected  with  dramatic  literature  touched  his 
emotions  sharply.  Hot  scorn  or  most  rapturous  delight  rose 
in  that  electric  nature  on  the  instant.  He  used  to  hold  that 
there  was  something  sacred  in  the  drama  properly  considered  ; 
and  when,  in  1843,  Mr.  "Webster  offered  a  prize  of  £500  for 
the  best  five-act  comedy,  he  discussed  the  project  amongst 
his  friends,  and  rallied  them  all  as  competitors — among  them 
Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  to  whom  he  wrote  : — 

"Of  course  you  have  flung  'Chuzzlewit'  to  the  winds,  and 
are  hard  at  work  upon  a  comedy.  Somebody — I  forget  his  name 
— told  me  that  you  were  seen  at  the  Haymarket  door,  with  a 
wet  newspaper  in  your  hand,  knocking  frantically  for  Webster. 
Five  hundred  pounds  for  the  best  English  comedy  !  As  I  think 
of  the  sum,  I  look  loftily  around  this  apartment  of  full  twelve  by 

*  The  late  L  ird  Nugent' s  scat. 


182  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JELROLD. 

thirteen — glance  with  poetic  frenzy  on  a  lark's  turf  that  does 
duty  for  a  lawn — take  a  vigorous  inspiration  of  the  '  double 
Bromptons'  that  are  nodding  defyingly  at  me  through  the 
diamond  panes — and  think  the  cottage,  land,  pigsty,  all  are 
mine,  evoked  from  an  ink- bottle,  and  labelled  'freehold,'  by  the 
call  of  Webster !  The  only  thing  I  am  puzzled  for  is  a  name 
for  the  property — a  name  that  shall  embalm  the  cause  of  its 
purchase.  On  duo  reflection,  I  don't  think  Humbug  Hull  a  bad 
one. 

"  If  a  man  wanted  further  temptation  to  write  the  'best' 
comedy,  it  would  be  found  in  the  composition  of  the  court  that 
.shall  decide  upon  its  merits.  Among  the  judges  shall  be  authors 
and  actors,  male  and  female,  with  dramatic  critics.  I  am  already 
favoured  with  the  names  of  some  of  these,  which,  as  you  will 
persist,  you  may  be  interested  in  the  knowledge  of."  (Here 
follows  a  whimsical  list  of  names.)  *  *  *  "  Mind,  you  must 
send  in  your  play  by  Michaelmas — it  is  thought  Michaelmas  day 
itself  will  be  selected  by  many  of  the  competitors  ;  for,  as  there 
will  be  about  five  hundred  (at  least)  comedies,  and  as  the  com- 
mittee cannot  read  above  two  at  a  sitting,  how— unless,  indeed, 
they  raffle  for  choice — can  they  select  the  true  thing — the 
phoenix  from  the  geese — by  Jan.  1st,  1844  ?  You  must  make 
haste,  so  don't  go  out  o'  nights." 

I  turn  from  this  bantering  to  the  serious  paper  in  which 
Douglas  Jerrold  set  forth  the  "  Rights  of  Dramatists,"  think- 
ing it  fit  that,  though  twenty-six  years  have  elapsed  since 
these  opinions  were  originally  published  in  the  Monthly 
Magazine,  they  should  be  here  again  set  forth,  as  expressing 
the  authors  serious  ideas  on  the  dignity  of  the  English  stage, 
and  of  its  claims  upon  the  country.  Subsequent  legislation 
has  done  away  with  the  evils  to  which  the  writer  pointed  ; 
but  the  value  of  the  paper  is,  not  in  the  present  use  of  the 
opinions  set  forth,  but  in  the  illustrations  they  afford  of  the 
quality  of  mind — the  deep  earnestness — of  the  writer. 

The  downright  earnest  with  which  my  father  spoke  or 
wrote  of  the  drama  may  be  traced  in  his  rebuke  to  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt,  as  well  as  in  the  "  Rights  of  Dramatists."     It  could 


COMEDIES— LEAVE-TAKING   OF  THE   STAGE.        183 

not  be  his  belief  that  the  simple  offer  of  £500  for  a  prize 
comedy  could  awake  the  drama  from  its  profound  slumber. 
Public  taste  must  be  gradually  educated  to  enjoy  pure  and 
high  comedy,  as  the  palate  must  be  taught  to  relish  olives  or 
truffles.  The  drama  was  a  passionate  love  with  the  subject 
of  this  memoir — a  love  that  abided  with  him,  and  brought 
him  more  bitter  fruit  than  sweet.  He  would  have  made  his 
idol  a  radiant,  informing  goddess ;  but  it  was  his  misfortune 
to  see  her  in  French  rags  and  vulgar  tinsel  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PUNCH. 


.■ 


Douglas  Jerrold  was  in  Boulogne,  writing  for  the  stage 
and  for  the  magazines,  when,  on  the  17th  of  July,  1841,  some 
literary  friends  of  his,  including  Mr.  Henry  Mayhew,  Mr. 
Mark  Lemon,  Mr.  E.  Landells,  Mr.  Stirling  Coyne,  Mr.  Henry 
Grattan,  and  others,  started  a  periodical  entitled  Punch,  or  tlie, 
London  Charivari.  This  periodical,  projected  by  Mr.  Henry 
Mayhew  (who  had  already  had  large  experiences  in  con- 
junction with  his  old  Westminster  schoolfellow,  Gilbert  a 
Beckett  in  comic  periodical  literature),  was  a  joint  specula- 
tion of  authors,  artists,  and  engravers.  A  letter  was  des- 
patched across  the  water  to  Douglas  Jerrold,  begging  the 
Boulogne  hermit  to  join  the  list  of  contributors.  No  article 
reached,  however,  in  time  for  number  one  ;  but  in  number 
two  appears  Douglas  Jerrold' s  first  contribution  to  a  periodical 
in  which  he  was  destined  to  write  his  most  popular  works. 
The  celebrated  bed-chamber  plot  is  the  main  topic  dealt  with 
in  this,  the  paper  in  which  Punch's  political  creed  is  set  forth. 
The  drawing  opposite  the  cut  represents  Peel  as  Hercules, 
tearing  Lord  John  Russell  (Theseus)  from  his  treasury-bench 
rock.  "  What  subtle,  sinister  advice,"  says  Punch,  in  his 
political  creed,  "  may,  by  a  crafty  disposition  of  royal  pins, 
be  given  on  the  royal  pincushion  !  What  minister  shall 
answer  for  the  sound  repose  of  Royalty  if  he  be  not  permitted 
to  make  Royalty's  bed  1  How  shall  he  answer  for  the  comely 
appearance  of  Royalty  if  he  do  not,  by  his  own  delegated  hands, 


PUNCH.  •  185 

lace  Royalty's  stays  1 "  Then,  in  the  journal,  there  are  hits 
at  Sibthorp,  Mr.  Henry  Moreton  Dyer,  Sir  Peter  Laurie,  Lord 
Melbourne,  and  others.  Among  the  "  recent  arrivals "  we 
find  that  of  Lord  John  Russell — "  at  a  conviction  that  the 
Whigs  are  not  so  popular  as  they  were  ; "  and  in  the  news 
we  are  told  that  the  anticipated  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius 
is  said  to  have  been  prevented  by  throwing  a  bos  of  Hollo- 
way's  ointment  into  the  crater.  There  are  the  famous  little 
black  figures  dancing  about  the  text  of  our  old  friend's  early 
numbers.  It  is  impossible  for  the  man  who  wishes  to  look 
back  through  the  years  he  has  lived,  and  to  have  the  inci- 
dents of  each  year  brought  back  in  a  startling  and  vivid  form 
to  his  mind,  to  take  up  a  more  suggestive  aide-memoire  than 
our  friend  of  Fleet  Street.  He  began  in  Fleet  Street  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  and  there  shines  his  raspberry  nose  to  this 
hour,  as  painted  by  Kenny  Meadows.  Men  destined  to 
become  fast  friends,  and  to  have  meetings  merrily  wise,  every 
week  through  long  years,  are  bearing  down  rapidly  to  his 
board.  Strong  men  shall  presently  take  hold  of  his  bdton, 
and  lay  about  them  with  prodigious  effect.  You  shall  learn 
that  statesmen  have  felt  the  blows  ;  that  Louis  Philippe, 
across  the  water,  has  winced.  The  rich  and  abundant  poetic 
fancy  of  Kenny  Meadows ;  the  Hogarthian  humour  and  the 
keen  observation  of  Leech ;  the  classic  humour  of  Richard 
Doyle,  shall  give  light  to  these  famous  pages.  Thackeray  is 
on  his  way  to  Fleet  Street  with  "  Brown's  Letters  to  his 
Nephews,"  with  "  Jeames,"  and  with  his  "  Snobs  ;"  Henry 
Mayhew  is  busy  with  quaint  subjects  for  the  artists  ;  Horace 
Mavhew  has  his  "Model  Men  and  Women "  in  his  desk; 
Percival  Leigh  chuckles  over  "  Pips  his  Diary  ; "  Shirley 
Brooks  hands  "  Miss  Violet"  to  the  office  ;  and  great  store 
of  graceful  verses  comes  with  Tom  Taylor.  Even  Tennyson 
shall  "write  some  stinging  satire  here,  and  Tom  Hood  make 
thousands  weep.  Very  early  Maginn  joined,  and  early  died. 
ranch  put  aside  his  mirth  when  his  first  friend  passed  away, 


18(5  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

to  hang  his  "  humble  immortelle  above  the  grave  of  genius." 
How  many  immortelles,  alas !  has  he  not  hung  upon  early 
graves  since  then  ! 

The  success  of  Punch  was  not  great  before  it  passed  into 
the  hands  of  its  present  proprietors,  Messrs.  Bradbury  and 
Evans.  But  we  stand  too  near  the  actors  to  criticise  their 
story  of  success.  I  pass  it  by,  to  be  treated  in  years  to  come, 
by  an  abler  pen.  The  materials  lie  thick  about,  and  to  the 
patient  are  worth  the  gathering,  that  they  may  be  laid  up 
till  time  shall  have  ripened  them  for  use.  How  Punch  won 
the  popularity  he  has  long  enjoyed,  and  who  made  the  greater 
part  of  this  success,  are  questions  that  are  not  for  the  present 
hour,  and  certainly  not  for  the  pen  that  traces  these  lines. 
But  it  may  be  said  that  Punch  achieved  much  of  the  political 
power  he  has  held  so  long,  by  the  aid  of  those  strong,  mas- 
culine, and  at  the  same'  time  fanciful,  articles  signed  "  Q," 
written  by  Douglas  Jerrold  .  the  first  of  which  appeared  on 
the  13th  of  September,  1841,  about  two  months  after  Punch 
was  born.  In  the  first  of  these  political  papers,  which  is 
entitled  "  Peel  Regularly  Called  In,"  we  trace  the  passionate 
reader  of  Buftbn  and  of  other  naturalists.  "  That  naturalist,"  * 
writes  Q.  "  speaks  of  a  turtle  that  continued  to  live  after  its 
brain  was  taken  from  its  skull,  and  the  cavity  stuffed  with 
cotton.  Is  not  England,  with  spinning-jenny  Peel  at  the  head 
of  its  affairs,  in  this  precise  predicament  1  England  may  live, 
but  inactive,  torpid,  unfitted  for  all  healthful  exertion ; 
deprived  of  its  grandest  functions,  paralysed  in  its  noblest 
strength.  We  have  a  Tory  cabinet,  but  whei'e  is  the  brain 
of  statesmanship  ?  "  And  again  :  "  Now,  however,  there  are 
no  Tories.  0  no  !  Sir  Robert  Peel  is  a  Conservative,  Lynd- 
hurst  is  a  Conservative,  all  are  Conservative.  Toryism  has 
sloughed  its  old  skiu,  and  rejoices  in  a  new  coat  of  many 
colours  :  but  the  sting  remains,  the  venom  is  the  same  ;  the 

*  Le  Yaillant. 


PUXCH.  187 

reptile  that  would  have  struck  to  the  heart  the  freedom  of 
Europe,  elaborates  the  self-same  poison,  is  endowed  with  the 
same  subtiltv,  the  same  grovelling,  tortuous  action.  It  still 
creeps  upon  its  belly,  and  wriggles  to  its  purpose.  When 
adders  shall  become  eels,  then  will  we  believe  that  Conserva- 
tives cannot  be  Tories." 

Then  Peel's  Tamworth  speech,  in  which  he  described  the 
expulsion  of  imbecile  Charles  X.  from  France  as  the  triumph 
of  might  over  right,  and  his  subsequent  endeavour  to  wriggle 
into  public  favour  by  applying  "  arithmetic  to  war,"  and 
suggesting  reductions  of  nations'  armaments,  are  laid  bare 
with  a  keen  knife.  "  It  is  sweet  to  prevent  war  ;  and,  oh  ! 
far  sweeter  still,  to  keep  out  the  Whigs  !"  Then  Wellington 
is  scourged  for  saying,  in  a  time  of  famine,  that  England  was 
the  only  country  in  which  "  the  poor  man,  if  only  sober  and 
industrious,  was  quite  certain  of  acquiring  a  competency." 
Says  Q.,  "  If  rags  and  starvation  put  up  their  prayer  to  the 
present  ministry,  what  must  be  the  answer  delivered  by  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  ?  '  Ye  are  drunken  and  lazy  ! '"  If 
this  be  the  duke's  belief,  then  he  is  told  "he  knows  no 
more  of  England  than  the  Icelander  in  his  sledge."  If  this 
dictum  be  a  party  cry,  then  does  it  discover  a  want  of  prin- 
ciple. Q.  pushes  his  grace  to  a  corner.  "  We  will  nail  him 
to  it  (the  dictum),  as  we  would  nail  a  weasel  to  a  barn-door." 
"  Gentlemen  Tories,"  Q.  concludes,  "  shuffle  the  cards  as 
you  will,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  either  lacks  principle  or 
brains." 

There  is  scorching  sarcasm  in  Q.'s  second  letter.  Dr. 
Chalmers  has  refused  to  attend  the  synod  of  clergymen, 
gathered  together  to  consider  the  relative  value  of  the  big 
and  little  loaf,  believing  that  the  road  for  the  indefinite 
advancement  of  the  working  classes  "  to  a  far  better  remu- 
neration, and,  of  course,  a  far  more  liberal  maintenance,  in 
return  for  their  toils,  than  they  have  ever  yet  enjoyed,"  is 
"  a  universal  Christian  education."     Then  turn  missionaries 


188  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

among  them,  says  Q.  ;  and,  following  out  the  idea,  the  writer 
declares,  "  To  this  end  the  bench  of  bishops  meet  at 
Lambeth  ;  and,  discovering  that  locusts  and  wild  honey — 
the  Baptist's  diet — may  be  purchased  for  something  less  than 
ten  thousand  a  year,  and  after  a  minute  investigation  of  the 
Testament,  failing  to  discover  the  name  of  St.  Peter's  coach- 
maker,  or  of  St.  Paul's  footman,  his  valet,  or  his  cook,  take 
counsel  one  with  another,  and  resolve  to  forego  at  least  nine- 
tenths  of  their  yearly  iu-comings." 

And  then,  in  pious  pilgrimage,  the  bishops  proceed  to 
teach  Christianity  to  her  Majesty's  ministers.  Lord  Stanley 
begs  that,  wheu  he  prays  for  power  to  forgive  all  his  enemies, 
he  may  be  permitted  to  except  from  that  prayer  Daniel 
O'Connell.  The  bishop,  however,  is  inexorable.  Then  we 
have  a  picture  of  pure  Christianity  in  London  for  one  day: — 

"  Oh,  reader  !  picture  to  yourself  Loudon — for  one  day 
only — operated  upon  by  the  purest  Christianity  !  Consider 
the  mundane  interests  of  this  tremendous  metropolis,  directed 
by  apostolic  principles  !  Imagine  the  hypocrisy  of  respecta- 
bility— the  conventional  lie — the  allowed  ceremonial  deceit — 
the  tricks  of  trade — the  ten  thousand  scoundrel  subterfuges 
by  which  the  lowest  dealers  of  this  world  purchase  bank- 
stock  and  rear  their  own  pine-apples — the  common,  innocent 
iniquities  (innocent  from  their  very  antiquity,  having  been 
bequeathed  from  sire  to  son),  which  men  perpetrate  six  work- 
ing days  in  the  week,  and  after,  lacker  up  their  faces  with  a 
look  of  sleek  humility,  for  the  Sunday  pew !  Consider  all 
this  locust  swarm  of  knaveries  annihilated  by  the  purifying 
spirit  of  Christianity,  and  then  look  upon  the  London  breath- 
ing and  living,  for  one  day  only,  by  the  sweet  sustaining  truth 
of  the  Gospel !  Had  one  page  ten  thousand  times  its  ampli- 
tude, it  would  not  contain  the  briefest  register  of  the  changes 
of  that  day  !  *  *  *  Let  us  descend  to  the  smallest  matters 
of  social  life.  '  Will  this  gingham  wash  1 '  asks  Betty,  the 
housemaid,  of  Twill,  the  linendraper.     Twill  is  a  Christian, 


PUNCH.  189 

and  therefore  replies,  '  It  is  a  very  poor  article,  and  will  not 
wash.'  No,  no,"  Q.  concludes  ;  "  we  are  with  Dr.  Chalmers 
for  Christianity,  but  not  Christianity  of  one  side" 

When  Mr.  Fielden's  motion  that  such  was  the  disti*ess 
through  the  country,  no  supply  of  money  should  be  voted 
till  some  means  had  been  devised  to  remedy  the  calamity, 
was  negatived  by  one  hundred  and  forty-nine  to  forty-one 
votes  in  the  House  of  Commons,  a  Tory  print  declared  that 
there  was  a  smile  on  the  face  of  every  well-dressed  gentle- 
man, and  of  every  well-to-do  artisan,  who  wended  their  way 
along  the  streets  of  this  vast  metropolis.  Q.  waxed  very 
wrath  indeed.  Toryism  cared  only  for  the  well-dressed  and 
the  well-to-do.  "Nature,"  wrote  Q.  "abhors  a  vacuum; 
therefore  has  nought  to  do  with  empty  bellies.  Happy  are 
the  men  whose  fate,  or  better  philosophy,  has  kept  them 
from  the  turnips  and  the  heather— fortunate  mortals,  who, 
banned  from  the  murder  of  partridges  and  grouse,  have  for 
the  hist  few  days  been  dwellers  in  merry  London  !  What 
exulting  faces  !  What 'crowds  of  well-dressed,  well-fed  Mol- 
volios  '  smiling '  at  one  another,  though  not  cross-gartered  ! 
To  a  man  prone  to  ponder  on  that  many-leaved,  that  scrib- 
bled, blurred,  and  blotted  volume,  the  human  face — that 
mysterious  tome,  printed  with  care,  with  cunning,  and  re- 
morse— that  thing  of  lies  and  miseries,  and  hypocritic  glad- 
ness— that  volume,  stained  with  tears,  and  scribbled  over  and 
over  with  daily  wants,  and  daily  sufferings,  and  daily  mean- 
— to  such  a  reader,  who,  from  hieroglyphic  lines  of 
ned  content,  can  translate  the  haggard  spirit  and  the 
pining  heart — to  such  a  man,  too  often  depressed  and  sickened 
by  the  contemplation  of  the  carnivorous  faces  thronging  the 
Btreets  of  London— faces  that  look  as  if  they  deemed  the 
stream  of  all  human  happiness  flowed  only  from  the  Mint — 
to  siu-li  a  man  how  great  the  satisfaction,  how  surpassing  the 
enjoyment  of  these  '  last  few  days  !'  As  with  the  Thane  of 
Cawdor,  every  man's  face  has  been  a  book;  but,  alas!  luckier 


190  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

than  Macbeth,  that  book  has  been — Joe  Miller  I  *  *  *  Clap 
your  hands  to  your  pulpy  sides,  0  well-dressed,  well-to-do 
London,  and  disdaining  the  pettiness  of  a  simper,  laugh  an 
ogre's  laugh  at  the  rags  of  Manchester — grin  like  a  tickled 
Polyphemus  at  the  hunger  of  Bolton  !  " 

Lord  Brougham  called  the  attention  of  the  House  to  the 
fact,  that  "  a  man  had  been  confined  for  ten  weeks,  having 
been  fined  a  shilling  &nd  fourteen  shillings  costs,  which  he  did 
not  pay,  because  he  was  absent  one  Sunday  from  church  ! " 
The  man  had  violated  a  dormant,  his  lordship  wished  he  could 
say  of  it  "an  obsolete  law." 

"  Who  can  doubt,"  Q.  exclaims,  "  that  from  the  moment 
John  Jones  (the  reader  may  christen  the  offender  as  he 
pleases)  was  discharged,  he  became  a  pious,  church-going 
Christian  ?  *  *  *  We  have  a  great  admiration  of  English 
law ;  yet,  in  the  present  instance,  we  think  she  shares  very 
unjustly  with  Mother  Church.  For  instance,  Church  in  her 
meekness  says  to  John  Jones,  '  You  come  not  to  my  house 
on  Sunday  :  pay  a  shilling.'  John  Jones  refuses.  '  What  ! ' 
exclaims  Law,  '  refuse  the  modest  request  of  my  pious  sister  1 
Refuse  to  give  her  a  little  shilling  ?  Give  me  fourteen.'' 
Hence,  in  this  Christian  country,  law  is  of  fourteen  times  the 
consequence  of  religion.  Applauding  as  we  do  the  efforts  of 
the  magistrates,  quoted  by  Lord  Brougham,  in  the  cause  of 
Christianity,  we  yet  conscientiously  think  their  system 
capable  of  improvement.  When  the  rustic  police  shall  be 
properly  established,  we  think  they  should  be  empowered  to 
seize  upon  all  suspected  non-church  goers  every  Saturday 
night,  keeping  them  in  the  station-houses  until  Sunday 
morning,  and  then  marching  them,  securely  handcuffed,  up 
the  middle  aisle  of  the  parish  church.  'Twould  be  a  touch- 
ing sight  for  Mr.  Plumptre  and  such  hard-sweating  devotees. 
For  the  benefit  of  old  offenders  we  would  also  counsel  a  little 
wholesome  private  whipping  in  the  vestry." 

The  masons  who  were  building  the  new  Houses   of  Par- 


PUNCH.  191 

liament  struck.  Q.  suggested  that,  as  the  recess  had  come, 
and  members  would  have  nothing  to  do,  they  should,  like 
beavers,  build  their  own  houses.  "  The  tiny  insect,  the  ant 
■ — that  living,  silent  monitor  to  unregarding  men — doth  it 
not  make  its  own  galleries — build,  with  toilsome  art,  its  own 
abiding-place  ?  Does  not  the  mole  scratch  its  own  chamber 
— the  carrion  kite  build  its  own  nest  1  Shall  cuckoos  and 
members  of  parliament  alone  be  lodged  at  others'  pains  ? " 
Then  follow  suggestions  how  various  members  might  be  em- 
ployed. "  Might  not  Disraeli  be  turned  into  a  very  jaunty 
carpenter,  and  be  set  to  the  light  interior  work  of  both  the 
houses  1  His  logic,  it  is  confessed,  will  support  nothing  ;  but 
we  think  he  would  be  a  very  smart  hand  at  a  hat-peg."  Sir 
James  Graham  would  do  the  dovetailing.  Q.  confesses  to  a 
difficulty  in  finding  among  the  members  of  the  sitting  par- 
liament, a  sufficient  number  of  stone-squarers.  knowing  that 
there  are  so  few  among  them  who  can  look  upon  more  than 
one  side. 

A  small  anti-corn-law  meeting  is  held.  Protectionist  re- 
porters describe  one  speaker  as  a  fustian-coated  biped — the 
lady  present  as  wearing  "  a  shocking  bad  black  and  white 
straw  bonnet."  Q.  touches  upon  "  Politics  of  the  Outward 
Man."  "  Plato,  doubtless,  thought  that  he  had  imagined  a 
magnificent  theory  when  he  averred  that  every  man  had 
within  him  a  spark  of  the  divine  flame.  But,  silly  Plato  ! 
he  never  considered  how  easily  this  spark  might  be  blown 
out.  At  this  moment  how  many  Englishmen  are  walking 
about  the  land  utterly  extinguished  !  Had  men  been  made 
on  the  principle  of  the  safety-lamp,  they  might  have  defied 
the  foul  breath  of  the  world's  opinion  ;  but,  alas  !  what  a 
tender,  thin-skinned,  shivering  thing  is  man  !  His  covering 
— the  livery  of  original  sin,  bought  with  the  pilfered  apples 
■ — is  worn  into  a  hole  ;  and  opinion,  that  sour-breathed  hag, 
claps  her  blue  lips  to  the  broken  web,  gives  a  [mil',  and  out 
goes  man's  immortal  spark  !     From  this   moment  the   crca- 


102  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

ture  is  but  a  carcass  ;  he  can  eat  and  drink  (when  lucky 
enough  to  be  able  to  try  the  experiment),  talk,  walk,  and  no 
more  ;  yes,  we  forgot,  he  can  work ;  he  still  keeps  precedence 
of  the  ape  in  the  scale  of  creation,  for  he  can  work  for  those 
who,  thickly  clothed  and  buttoned  to  the  throat,  have  no 
rent  in  their  purple,  no  stitch  dropped  in  their  superfine,  to 
expose  their  precious  souls  to  an  annihilating  gust,  and  who, 
therefore,  keep  their  immortal  sparks  like  tapers  in  burglars' 
dark  lanterns,  whereby  to  rob  and  spoil  with  greater 
certainty." 

Sir  Peter  Laurie  has  committed  a  starving  tailor  to  the 
treadmill  for  a  mouth,  as  a  rogue  and  vagabond,  for  having 
attempted  to  commit  suicide.  Sir  Peter  announces  his  in- 
tention of  looking  very  narrowly  into  these  cases  for  the 
future.  Q.  having  no  more  thought  of  dedicating  a  whole 
page  of  Punch  to  one  Sir  Peter  Laurie  "  than  the  zoological 
Mr.  Cross  would  think  of  devoting  an  acre  of  his  gardens  to 
one  ass,  simply  because  it  happened  to  be  the  largest  known 
specimen  of  the  species,"  still  ventures  to  contrast  life,  as  seen 
by  the  sleek  alderman,  with  life  as  regarded  by  the  "  famine- 
stricken  multitudes  of  Bolton."  "  Let  comfort,"  Q.  con- 
cludes, "  paint  a  portrait  of  life,  and  now  Penuiy  take  the 
pencil.  'Pooh,  pooh!'  cry  the  sage  Lauries  of  the  world, 
looking  at  the  two  pictures;  'that  scoundrel  Penury  ha? 
drawn  an  infamous  libel.  That  life  !  with  that  withered  face, 
sunken  eye,  and  shrivelled  lip ;  and  what  is  worse,  with  a 
suicidal  scar  in  its  throat !  That  life  !  The  painter  Penury 
is  committed  for  a  month  as  a  rogue  and  vagabond.  We  shall 
look  very  narrowly  into  these  cases.'  We  agree  with  the 
profound  Sir  Peter  Laurie  that  it  is  a  most  wicked,  a  most 
foolish  act  of  the  poor  man,  to  end  his  misery  by  suicide. 
But  we  think  there  is  a  better  remedy  for  such  desperation 
than  the  treadmill.  The  surest  way  for  the  rich  and  powerful 
of  the  world  to  make  the  poor  man  more  careful  of  his  life  is 
to  render  it  of  greater  value  to  him." 


PUNCH.  193 

Louis  Philippe,  with  Queen  Christina,  the  mover  of  the 
famous  revolution  in  Spain,  against  her  own  children,  is  con- 
trasted with  the  authors  of  the  Quenisset  conspiracy  in  France. 
Louis  Philippe  is  the  Jemmy  Twitcher  of, the  French.  His 
double,  the  carpenter  Just  of  the  French  conspiracy,  is  left 
for  the  guillotine  when  caught,  while  his  Majesty,  and  her 
ex-Majesty  of  Spain,  remain  in  safety.  Just  leaves  his  dupe 
to  be  decapitated,  and  sneaks  away ;  their  Majesties  leave 
Don  Leon,  and  the  other  brave  men  they  incited  to  revolt, 
to  the  executioner.  Q.  says,  "  It  is  to  make  the  blood  boil 
in  our  veins,  to  read  the  account  of  the  execution  of  such 
men  as  Leon,  Ora,  and  Boria,  the  foolish  martyrs  to  a  wicked 
cause.  Never  was  a  great  social  wrong  dignified  by  higher 
courage.  Our  admiration  of  the  boldness  with  which  these 
men  have  faced  their  fate,  is  mingled  with  the  deepest  regret 
that  the  prime  conspirators  are  safe  in  Paris  ;  that  one  sits 
in  derision  of  justice  on  fell®w-criminals — on  men  whose 
crime  may  have  some  slight  extenuation  from  ignorance, 
want,  or  fancied  cause  of  revenge  ;  that  the  other,  with  the 
surpassing  meekness  of  Christianity,  goes  to  mass  in  her 
carriage,  distributes  her  alms  to  the  poor,  and,  with  her  soul 
dyed  with  the  blood  of  the  young,  the  chivalrous,  and  the 
brave,  makes  mouths  at  heaven  in  very  mockery  of  prayer. 
We  once  were  sufficiently  credulous  to  believe  in  the  honesty 
of  Louis  Philippe ;  we  sympathised  with  him  as  a  bold,  able, 
high-principled  man  fighting  the  fight  of  good  government 
against  a  faction  of  smoke-headed  fools  and  scoundrel  desper- 
adoes. He  has  outlived  our  good  opinion — the  good  opinion 
of  the  world.  He  is,  after  all,  a  lump  of  crowned  vulgarity. 
Pity  it  is  that  men,  the  trusting  and  the  brave,  are  made  the 
puppets,  the  martyrs,  of  such  regality." 

"  Half  the  day  at  least,"  says  the  editor  of  the  Athencenm 
(December,  1841),  "  we  are  infancy  at  the  palace,  taking  or.r 
turn  of  loyal  watch  by  the  cradle  of  the  heir-apparent  ;  tht 
rtst,  at  our  own  firesides,  in  that  mood  of  cheerful  thankfulru  i 

o 


194  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

which  makes  fun  and  frolic  welcome."  About  the  same  time 
Weeks,  a  Greenwich  pensioner,  was  "fobbed  out  of  £120,000" 
for  having  boasted,  among  other  things,  that  he  had  had 
children  by  Queen  Elizabeth — that  he  intended  to  marry 
Queen  Victoria — and  that,  in  fact,  "  not  George  the  Third  but 
Weeks  the  First  was  the  father  of  Queen  Charlotte's  offspring." 
"Now,"  asks  Q.,  "  what  is  all  this  but  loyalty  in  excess  ?  Is 
it  not  precisely  the  same  feeling  that  takes  the  editor  of  the 
Athenceitm  half  of  every  day  from  his  family,  spell-binding 
him  at  the  cradle  of  the  Duke  of  Cornwall  1  Cannot  our 
readers  just  as  easily  believe  the  pensioner  as  the  editor  1 
We  can.  *  *  *  A  writer  in  the  Almanack  des  Gourmands 
says,  in  praise  of  a  certain  viand,  '  this  is  a  dish  to  be  eaten 
on  your  knees.'  There  are  writers  who,  with  goose-quill 
in  hand,  never  approach  royalty  but  they — write  upon  their 
knees  !" 

In  the  first  number  of  the  London  Cliarivari 's  second 
volume  is  the  "  Vision  of  Punch,"  by  Q.,  wherein  Eighteen 
Hundred-aud-Forty-One  joins  his  elders  in  the  Hall  of 
Departed  Years.  "  And  every  year  sat  beneath  his  number 
burning  above  him,  from  the  year  1  to  the  year  1841.  And 
almost  every  year  had  a  different  garment  from  his  fellow. 
The  Year  One,  and  many  of  his  immediate  neighbours,  wore 
skins  of  beasts,  and  were  painted  as  Punch  had  seen  the 
pictures  of  the  ancient  Britons ;  whilst  succeeding  years 
sported  the  Norman  shirt,  and  others  the  flowing  robes  of 
the  Plantagenets,  and  some  sat  demure  and  close-cropped, 
with  the  faces  of  Puritans ;  and  to  these  succeeded  years  in 
short  velvet  cloaks,  and  Spanish  hats  and  plumes  ;  and  to 
them,  years  (the  first  was  the  Year  Sixteen-Hundred-and- 
Eighty-eight)  in  square-tailed  coats;  and  then  following  years 
smiled  from  under  three-cornered  hats  and  periwigs ;  and 
there  were  other  years  in  blue  coats  and  buckskin  breeches. 
Indeed,  among  all  the  eighteen  hundred  and  forty-one  assem- 
bled, there  were  no  two  years  that  wore  precisely  the  same 


PUNCH.  195 

outward  covering.  The  last  comer  (for  brevity  we'll  call  him 
Forty-one)  entered  in  a  Petersham  coat  and  railway  drill 
trousers.  As  he  took  his  seat,  he  was  received  with  clamorous 
applause."  Then  the  years  fall  to  gossiping  with  the  new 
comer,  Waterloo.  Eighteen-fifteen  asks  how  his  old  friend 
Wellington  does  1 

"  He's  as  droll  as  ever  in  the  House  of  Lords,''  replied 
Forty-one.  "  A  few  weeks  ago  he  said  poverty,  drunkenness, 
and  idleness  were  one  and  the  same  thing,  and  stoutly  denied 
the  existence  of  any  want  in  the  country,  as  he  had  himself 
counted  live -and -twenty  turkeys  at  his  own  poulterer's." 
Then  Forty- one  relates  how  O'Connell  has  lost  himself  in 
a  lord  mayor's  pair  of  breeches — how,  by  way  of  war,  a  few 
teapots  had  been  broken  in  China.  At  last,  wearied  with  the 
many  questions  of  the  elders,  Forty-one,  having  quaffed  from 
a  skull  of  metheglin — offered  by  Death,  "Time's  true  Gany- 
mede"— said,  "I  have  seen  misery  increase  with  every  hour; 
I  have  heard  the  wailing  voices  of  tens  of  thousands  of  the 
poor  crying  for  bread ;  and  I  have  heard  purse-proud  mono- 
polists exclaim,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  'Give  them  a  stone  !' 
As  for  politics  I  have  left  the  world  in  a  very  pretty  clench. 
The  Whigs,  failing  to  sympathise  with  the  people,  lost  them. 
As  for  the  Conservatives  they  are  pledged  to  '  remedy  all 
approved  abuses,1  the  question  being,  What  will  they  admit 
to  be  an  abuse  1  Will  they  call  a  rat-hole  a  rat-hole  ?  or  will 
the}*,  as  they  have  ever  done,  swear  the  hole  to  be  a  useful, 
healthful  ventilator?"  Then  Forty-one  declares  that  a 
popular  power  is  rising  that  must  be  paramount.  "Though 
a  Hercules  be  at  the  breast,  the  time  will  come  when  he'll 
wield  a  club." 

"  Man  versus  Machine,"  is  a  paper  in  which  a  petition  in 
favour  of  a  Ten  Hours'  Act,  presented  to  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
is  discussed.  Sir  Robert  replied  that  "  female  and  youthful 
labour  is  preferred,  because  of  its  greater  cheapness."  "  Hist ! 
A  word,"  cries  Q.,  "  to  the  perpetuation  of  a  system  that 

o  2 


106  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

deprives  the  poor  man  of  a  virtuous  wife,  and  the  poor  infant 
of  a  tender  mother — she  is  cheaper  than  the  masculine  animal. 
*  *  *  The  steam-engine,  despite  of  themselves,  must  and 
will  carry  statesmen  back  to  first  principles.  As  it  is,  ma- 
chinery is  a  fiend  to  the  poor ;  the  time  will  come  when  it 
will  be  as  a  beneficent  angel." 

The  Marquis  de  Boissy,  in  the  French  Chamber  of  Peers, 
in  18-42,  said,  "The  worst  enemies  of  government  are  persons 
without  property  ;"*  whereupon  Q.  writes  a  paper  on  "The 
Traitor  '  Nothing.'  "  "  Agreed,"  says  Q.  "  This  Nothing  is 
the  poor  man's  fiend — the  devil  that  haunts  him.  In  the 
morning  he  rises  with  Nothing  at  his  fireside — if,  indeed,  he 
have  not  slept  with  Nothing,  in  the  winter  air.  He  looks  in 
his  cupboard  :  Nothing  grins  at  him  from  the  empty  shelves 
— Nothing  frowns  from  the  dark,  cold  fireplace.  *  * 
There  are  ten  thousand  unknown  victims — creatures  born  to 
Nothing,  tended  by  Nothing,  taught  by  Nothing,  gaining 
Nothing,  hoping  Nothing.  From  their  first  gulp  of  vital  air 
to  their  death-rattles,  Nothing  has  been  with  them — Nothing 
comforted  their  mother  in  her  hour  of  anguish — Nothing 
gave  to  their  babyhood  the  abandonment  and  frank  happiness 
of  infancy — Nothing,  a  stony-hearted  tyrant,  has  awakened 
in  their  bosoms  the  dignity  and  supremacy  of  man — Nothing 
has  been  their  shadow,  their  fate,  their  destiny.  *  *  *  Thus 
considered,  what  a  terrible  meaning  has  this  said  Nothing  ! 
What  a  monster  it  is  !  What  blood  and  tears  make  up  its 
name  !  What  groans  and  heart-breaks  are  in  its  voice  ! 
And,  alas  !  we  fear  it  is  too  true — Nothing  is  an  enemy  of 
the  government  !  And  Nothing — let  the  government  be 
sure  of  it — has  a  hundred  thousand  emissaries."  t 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  gave  to  the  7 2nd  Highlanders 

*  Years  did  not  bring  the  philosophic  mind  to  the  Marquis  as  he  proved, 
under  the  Second  Empi:  e,  before  he  died. 

t  In  1848  Nothing— not  a  Reform  banquet —destroyed  the  government 
of  ili?  Marquis  de  Boissy's  royal  master. 


PUNCH.  197 

colours  "consecrated"  in  the  words  of  bis  grace,  "by  one  of 
the  highest  dignitaries  of  the  church."  "The  Quakers," 
writes  Q. — " a  rich  body,  too — will  pay  well  for  any  won- 
drous piece  of  writing  that  may  disabuse  their  meek  and  in- 
telligent sect  of  an  old,  ingrained  prejudice,  tbat  denounces 
war  as  bloodshed,  and  conquest  as  plunder.  More — we  have 
no  doubt  that,  as  amends  for  their  lo.ig  errors  of  ignorance, 
they  will  raise  among  themselves  an  efficient  corps  for  active 
service.  Yes,  we  shall  have  the  Volunteer  Broadbrims  and 
the  Rifle  Drabs.  The  stain  and  taint  of  blood  being  taken 
from  the  colours  of  war — the  foul  and  reeking  coat  of  Mars 
having  been  subjected  to  the  great  episcopal  reviver — homi- 
cide becomes  an  agreeable  kind  of  Whole  Duty  of  Man,  and 
pillage  a  sacred  and  most  direct  way  of  enriching  one's  self. 
We  must,  however,  have  the  form  of  consecration  published, 
otherwise  men  will  uncharitably  accuse  the  sublime  prelate 
of  selfish  ends,  as  wishing  to  retain  a  monopoly  of  the  pro- 
cess. We  have,  however,  no  objection  to  its  being  secured  to 
him  by  patent,  if  he  will  fix  upon  a  permission  to  use  the 
same  at  a  moderate  price,  to  be  brought  within  the  means  of 
even  a  Welsh  curate." 

"  Why  not  consecrate  the  kilts  ?"  asks  Q. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington,  as  he  rode  to  the  House,  touched 
his  hat  to  the  groans  of  a  crowd,  "  as  if  receiving  the  most 
complimentary  applause."  Q.  contrasts  the  duke  riding  over 
the  bloody  field  of  Waterloo  in  deep  despondency,  with  the 
coldness  with  which  he  might  ride  in  England  amid  the 
famished.  "  How  many  more  than  fifty  thousand  English- 
men are,  at  this  moment,  dying  the  slow  and  torturing 
death  of  want !  Paisley  and  Bolton  can  outnumber  the 
horrors  of  Waterloo  ;  and  yet  it  is  evident,  from  the  poli- 
tical arrival  of  the  duke  in  the  House  of  Lords — evident 
from  his  heroism  so  recently  exhibited  near  St.  Margaret's 
— that  his  grace  could  'very  deliberately  walk  his  horse' 
through  the  grass-grown  streets  of  the  manufacturing  town, 


198  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

and  'touch  his  hat'    to   the  groans  of  its  famine-stricken 

denizens." 

The  County  Courts'  Bill  is  before  parliament.  The  sub- 
ject of  law  abuses  is  a  fruitful  one.  Q.  declares  that  John 
Bull  "  may  defy  the  bowstring ;  but  can  he  laugh  at  that 
more  fatal  ligament — red  tope  1  He  may  snap  his  fingers  at 
the  knout ;  but  can  he  smile  at  that  Beelzebub's  blister — 
parchment  ?  *  *  *  Turkey  has  her  eunuchs,  Russia  her 
Cossacks,  and  England  her  attorneys  !  There  is  for  the  sins, 
or  rather  the  supposed  sins  of  men,  the  bowstring,  the  spear, 
and  the  writ ! "  Well,  of  course  Wellington  will  resist  Reform 
now,  as  he  resisted  the  abolition  of  arrest  for  debt  on  mesne 
irrocess.  "  We  once  more  may  hear  Achilles  pleading  for  the 
innocent  civilian,  attorney  Polyphemus  ! "  Lawyers  are,  of 
course,  against  cheap  justice.  "  It  is  because  lawyers  are  not 
wedded  to  justice  that,  like  other  profligates  with  their  nomi- 
nal wives,  they  would  have  her  dress  finely." 

Sir  Robert  Peel  carries  an  Income  Tax  of  sevenpence  in 
the  pound.  Q.  thanks  him,  in  the  name  of  suffering  thou- 
sands, and  is  not  ashamed  to  own  that  Sir  Robert  has  dis- 
appointed him,  and  that  most  agreeably.  There  should  have 
been  a  Property  Tax  in  aid  of  the  distress  of  suffering  thou- 
sands ;  but  then,  asks  Q.,  "  Can  any  one  not  worthy  of  a  cell 
in  Bedlam  hope  a  Property  Tax  from  the  wisdom  and  self- 
devotion  of  the  House  of  Commons  1  When  '  dealers  in 
marine  stores'  shall  seek  out  the  innocents  despoiled,  and 
render  back  to  them  the  goods  they  have  lost,  then  will  the 
heai-t  of  St.  Stephen  turn  to  flesh  in  his  bosom,  and,  unbutton- 
ing his  pocket,  will  he  pay  a  Property  Tax  ! "  A  cry  is  raised 
against  the  "inquisitorial  nature  of  the  Income  Tax."  Q. 
writes  :  "  The  Income  Tax  is  inquisitorial  !  In  consequence 
of  its  operation  every  man  must  inevitably  have  some  know- 
ledge of  the  true  means  of  his  neighbour.  Why,  if  society 
were  regulated  by  just  principles  ;  if  honesty,  and  nought 
but  honesty,  traded  in  the  market,  bartered  in  the  ware- 


PUNCH.  199 

house,  and  sold  behind  the  counter,  a  man  would  no  more 
seek  to  mask  his  means  from  the  world  than  he  now  seeks 
to  mask  his  face.  *  *  *  Hypocrisy  is  the  tutelar  spirit 
of  society — the  foundations  of  all  cities  are  lies."  Mr.  Charles 
Buller  thought  the  principle  of  indirect  taxation  better.  Q. 
likens  this  unconscious  levying  of  taxes  to  the  activity  of  the 
vampire-bat  —  he  is  the  tax-gatherer  on  these  occasions. 
"  For  we  are  told  that  the  creature,  in  the  silence  of  night, 
fixes  itself  upon  the  toes  of  the  sleeper,  and  drinks  and 
drinks  its  greedy  draughts  of  blood,  and  while  it  drinks, 
benevolently  fans  its  victim  with  its  wings ;  and  so  the 
sleeper,  i.e.,  the  tax-payer,  sleeps  on  until  the  vampire  is 
gorged ;  and  then  the  creature  goes  away,  leaving  the  man 
in  perfect  ignorance  of  the  amount  of  income  he  has,  in  his 
slumber,  subscribed.  Now  this  is  the  sort  of  tax-gatherer 
proposed  by  Mr.  Charles  Buller.  Dr.  PeeL  however,  says, 
'  No ;  I  want  so  many  ounces  of  blood  from  every  man, 
according  to  his  capabilities  of  losing  the  same.  I  will  take 
them,  weigh  them  fairly ;  so  hold  out  your  arm,  and — where's 
the  basin?'" 

A  murder  is  committed,  and  the  murderer  becomes 
famous.  Q.  discourses  of  Blood.  "  '  The  murderer  takes 
coffee  !  '  On  the  instant  a  hundred  goose-quills  register  the 
fact.  The  assassin  eats  one,  two,  three  slices  of  bread  and 
butter  ;  and  one,  two,  three  slices  are  faithfully  registered  by 
the  historians  of  blood.  The  murderer  smiles,  and  the  ever- 
watchful  public  instructor  makes  inventory  of  the  homicidal 
dimple.  The  man-queller  '  talks  unconcernedly,'  and  the  light 
chit-chat  of  the  ensanguined  wretch  is  served  up  for  families 
at  Sunday  tables.  The  miscreant  sleeps ;  but  is  he  left  in 
solitude  1  0  no  !  for  the  Press,  a  harridan  gossip,  sits  at  the 
pallet  of  the  man  of  blood,  and  counts  his  throes,  his  groans  ; 
marks  his  convulsed  limbs,  and  the  sweat  of  agony  upon  his 
Cain-branded  brow,  and  straightway  vends  her  babble  to  all 
buyers.     *    *    *     To  take  human  life  is  terrible ;   but  is 


200  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

there  no  guilt  in  moral  murder  1  Is  there  no  crime  in  sys- 
tematically killing  the  finest  sensibilities  of  our  nature,  by 
daily  and  hourly  familiarising  them  with  the  atrocities  of 
monsters  1  Look  at  the  placards  exhibited  throughout 
London  for  these  past  three  weeks.  We  read  nothing  but 
*  Blood  ! '     The  very  walls  cry,  '  Blood  ! '" 

Quoth  Hume  in  the  House  of  Commons,  "  the  time  was 
come  for  doing  away  with  some  of  the  gold  lace  " — at  court ! 
Q.  enlarges  on  this  point.  "  Nations,  like  individuals,  have 
their  times  for  cup-and-ball,  jack-in-the-box,  and  ring-taw. 
The  office  of  Court  Fool  was  at  one  time  a  post  essential  to 
the  privilege,  if  not  to  the  dignity,  of  royalty.  The  office 
was  abolished  by  no  statute,  but  fell  into  contempt,  and  was 
finally  set  aside  by  the  advancing  spirit  of  society.  For 
ourselves  we  have  held,  it  may  be,  peculiar  and  false  notions 
respecting  these  Court  Zanies.  We  have  looked  upon  them 
as  great  social  reformers — as  a  kind  of  working  curates  to 
the  high  priest,  Humanity.  When  no  man's  tongue  dared  to 
speak  the  indignation  of  his  heart ;  at  a  time  when  the  bit- 
terest social  wrong  was  to  be  endured  in  silence  ;  when  man 
was  the  flushed,  unchecked  oppressor  of  man,  the  Court  Fool 
gave  utterance  to  the  groan,  wringing  the  suffering  with  a 
jest  that,  like  the  feather  of  the  arrow,  sent  the  truth  still 
further  home.  Who  shall  say  how  much  violence  and  wrong 
the  Court  Fool  may  not  have  stayed  when,  in  the  hours  of 
vacancy  or  mirth,  he  may  have  put  truth  into  the  guise  of 
folly,  and,  with  the  quaint  courage  of  an  allowed  zany,  have 
touched  with  pity  and  remorse,  the  bosom  of  a  tyrant  ? 
Even  despotism  in  its  innermost  heart,  loves  truth ;  and 
though  truth  was  not  to  be  allowed  in  its  solemn  voice  and 
simple  garb,  it  might  be  jingled  with  the  bells  of  a  merry- 
andrew — permitted  in  the  livery  of  a  jester.  As  men  began 
to  beard  despotism  the  Court  Fool  fell  into  neglect,  and 
when  Truth  might  speak  her  own  language,  her  liveried  talker 
gave  up  the  ghost.     Mr.  Hume  doubtless  sees,  in   the  gold- 


PUNCH.  201 

trapped  lackeys  of  the  state,  expensive  court  fools  without 
their  wit.  They  are  costly  without  being  amusing — the 
remnants  of  a  bygone  time — the  big  glittering  babies 
'  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn.'  '  Therefore  the  time  is  come  for 
doing  away  some  of  the  gold  lace.''  " 

Yet  how — not  only  at  court,  but  through  the  country — 
we  hustle  and  fight  for  a  bit  of  "  gold  lace  !  "  "  And,  as 
society  is  at  present,  is  not  every  man  judged  by  the  quan- 
tity of  his  'gold  lace?'  Is  not,  therefore,  'gold  lace'  the 
subject  of  the  morning  and  evening  hymn  with  all  men  ? 
Do  we  ask  of  a  man,  '  Has  he  talent,  virtue,  patriotism,  bene- 
volence 1  Is  he  the  pattern  of  a  husband,  parent,  and  citizen  1 ' 
0  no  !  we  ask  nothing  of  this — he  may  have  all  this — he 
may  be  all  this  —we  do  not  question  it ;  but — and  here  we 
draw  ourselves  up,  and  put  the  interrogation  with  an  awful- 
ness  of  manner,  in  proper  keeping  with  the  solemnity  of  the 
query — but  we  ask,  '  Has  the  man  gold  lace  !  '  Happy  will 
be  the  land  when,  duly  conscious  of  what  constitutes  true 
greatness,  it  shall  exclaim,  in  the  (improved)  words  of  Joseph 
Hume,  '  Therefore  the  time  is  come  for  doing  away  all  of  the 
gold  lace!'" 

Minutes  of  evidence  before  a  select  committee  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  on  the  subject  of  members'  accommo- 
dation, were  published  in  1842.  A  library  and  a  smoking- 
room  are  among  the  conveniences  recommended.  Q.  suggests 
that  bath-rooms,  sulphur  strigils  (  "  there  are  drawings  of  the 
last  in  Sir  W.  Gell's  Pompeiana"  ),  scissors,  bath-men,  &c. 
should  be  added  to  insure  parliamentary  cleanliness.  In- 
stead of  going  to  the  expense  of  a  smoking-room,  why  should 
not  members  be  permitted  to  smoke  in  their  places  1  "  The 
smoke  curling  from  meerschaum  and  cigar  would,  in  so  many 
cases,  exquisitely  illustrate  the  patriotism,  wisdom,  and  utility 
of  the  smokers.  We  trust  that  Mr.  Hume  will  get  up  an 
amendment,  to  the  effect  that  there  be  no  smoking-room,  but 
that  a  small  grant  be  voted  for  the  supply  of  six  hundred 


202  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERTIOLD. 

and  fifty-eight  japanned  spittoons."  Then  why  is  there  no 
proposition  for  a  billiard-room  1  "  This  is  a  grievous  omis- 
sion ;  the  more  so  as  the  object  of  many  members'  seeking 
the  House  of  Commons  is  solely  to  learn  how  to — pocket." 
Cards,  dice,  and  dominoes,  also,  should  have  been  admitted, 
Q.  is  convinced  that  the  omission  has  only  to  be  pointed  out 
to  be  remedied.  For  then  "  how  many  railway  and  company 
bills,  at  present  prosily  discussed  in  committee,  might  be 
arranged  in  a  comfortable  round  game  of  speculation  1  *  *  * 
Instead  of  settling  every  question  by  the  tedious  operation 
of  dividing  the  House,  why  not  cut  for  it  1 " 

Captain  Alexander  Byrie,  of  the  Acadia,  in  latitude  46°, 
longitude  47°,  saw  an  iceberg,  from  four  hundred  to  five  hun- 
dred feet  high,  bearing  so  strong  a  resemblance  to  St.  Paul's, 
that  it  was  at  once  christened  after  that  celebrated  cathedral. 
Q.  finds  something  more  than  curious  in  this  ice-formed  cathe- 
dral. He  has  little  doubt  that  it  is  intended  as  a  significant 
warning  to  certain  dignitaries  of  the  church — to  certain 
bodies  of  protesting  Christians.  "  For  our  part,  iceberg  as 
it  is,  we  think  it  should  be  immediately  dignified  by  deans, 
prebends,  canons,  choir,  and  all  the  other  ecclesiastical  orna- 
ments to  be  found  in  the  stone  St.  Paul's.  We  should 
mightily  like  to  have  the  appointment  of  the  whole  body. 
We  think  we  could  lay  our  finger  upon  a  bishop,  whose  hot 
political  zeal  would  be  reduced  to  a  very  healthful  tempera- 
ture, if  submitted  to  an  ice  pulpit.  Then  his  discourses 
would  have  the  refreshing  coolness  of  his  own  port.  Most 
of  us  know  what  hot  bishop  is  ;  therefore,  for  a  trial,  we 
should  mightily  like  to  taste  the  bishop  we  could  name — well 
iced.  We  know  not  whether  Sir  Christopher  Wren's  St. 
Paul's  could  spare  a  few  of  its  body  for  its  glacial  counter- 
part ;  but  we  have  no  doubt  that  Sydney  Smith  can  imme- 
diately resolve  that  question.  We  think  there  are  many 
attached  to  the  stone  edifice  very  much  too  warm  for  zealous 
churchmen — they  would  cool  down  admirably,  preferred  to  an 


PUNCH.  203 

iceberg.  As  for  the  congregation  we  could  ship  off  thousands 
who,  with  lips  of  Christian  love,  have  hearts  of  snowballs — 
zealous  churchgoers,  who  come  and  go,  frozen  in  their  ortho- 
doxy, whose  constitutional  piety  never  rises  to  blood  heat. 
There  is,  however,  one  appointment  that  we  insist  upon 
having  in  our  own  gift — it  is  that  of  beadle,  which,  in  the 
handsomest  way,  we  shall  bestow  on  Mr.  Plumptre,  whose 
recent  efforts  in  parliament  to  stop  by  statute,  the  chirping 
of  sparrows  on  Sundays,  demands  the  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments of  the  whole  Christian  world.  Neither,  should  Sir 
Andrew  Agnew  apply  for  the  place,  do  we  think  we  could 
find  it  in  our  hearts  to  refuse  him,  the  appointment  of 
pew-opener.  We  have  not  entered  upon  this  subject  in  a 
thoughtless  vein.  We  are  aware  that  the  frequent  cry  of, 
1  The  Church  is  in  danger  ! '  may  be  repeated  on  board  the 
iceberg  St.  Paul's,  the  more  especially  should  it  float  into  a 
warm  latitude.  We  have  heard  of  the  dissolution  of  abbeys  ; 
but  what  a  dissolution  would  there  be  of  the  cathedral,  as, 
piece  by  piece,  it  melted  into  the  relentless  waters  !  We  have, 
however,  provided  for  the  dignitaries  and  the  congregation  ; 
nay,  the  beadle  and  the  pew-opener  shall  partake  of  our 
benevolence ;  for,  in  the  true  spirit  of  philanthropy,  we 
propose  to  present  one  and  all  with — a  cork  jacket !  " 

In  the  middle  of  1842,  still  continuing  the  "  Q.  Papers," 
of  which  I  have  offered  the  reader  some  random  samples — 
still,  in  quaint  story  or  happy  metaphor,  dealing  with  the 
social  and  political  questions  of  the  day,  Douglas  Jerrold 
began  "  Punch's  Letters  to  his  Son."  But  these  "  Q.  Papers  " 
were  "  the  first  essays  which  attracted  attention  in  Punch.'1'' 
"  A  basis  of  philosophical  observation  tinged  with  tender- 
ness," writes  Mr.  Hannay,  "and  a  dry,  ironical  humour — 
all,  like  the  Scottish  lion  in  heraldry,  '  within  a  double  tres- 
sure-fleury  and  counter-fleury '  of  wit  and  fancy — such  is  a 
Jerroldian  paper  of  the  best  class  in  Punch.  It  stands  out 
by  itself  from  all  the  others — the  sharp,  critical  knowingness, 


204  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

sparkling  with  puna,  of  a  Beckett — the  inimitable,  wise,  easy, 
playful,  worldly,  social  sketch  of  Thackeray.  In  imagery  he 
had  no  rivals  there  \  for  his  mind  had  a  very  marked  tendency 
to  the  ornamental  and  illustrative — even  to  the  grotesque. 
In  satire,  again,  he  had  fewer  competitors  in  humour ; 
sarcasms  lui-k  under  his  similes,  like  wasps  in  fruit  or 
flowers.  I  will  just  quote  one  specimen  from  a  casual  article 
of  his,  because  it  happens  to  occur  to  my  memory,  and  be- 
cause it  illustrates  his  manner.  The  Chronicle  had  been 
attacking  some  artists  in  whom  he  took  an  interest.  In  re- 
plying, he  set  out  by  telling  how,  in  some  vine  countries, 
they  repress  the  too  luxuriant  growths  by  sending  in  asses  to 
crop  the  shoots.  Then  he  remarked  gravely  that  young 
artists  required  pruning,  and  added,  '  How  thankful  we  ought 
all  to  be  that  the  Chronicle  keeps  a  donkey  ! '  In  sterner 
moods  he  was  grander.  Of  a  Jew  money-lender  he  said  that 
'he  might  die  like  Judas,  but  that  he  had  no  bowels  to  gush 
out ; '  also,  that  '  he  (the  money-lender)  would  have  sold  our 
Saviour  for  more  money.''  An  imaginative  colour  distinguished 
his  best  satire,  and  it  had  the  deadly  and  wild  glitter  of  war- 
rockets.  This  was  the  most  original  quality,  too,  of  his 
satire,  and  just  the  quality  which  is  least  common  in  our 
present  satirical  literature.  He  had  read  the  old  writers — 
Browne,  Donne,  Fuller,  and  Cowley — and  was  tinged  with 
that  richer  and  quainter  vein  which  so  emphatically  distin- 
guishes them  from  the  prosaic  wits  of  our  day.  His  weapons 
reminded  you  of  Damascus  rather  than  Birmingham." 

Most  various  are  the  subjects  carved  in  Punch  by  this 
keen  weapon.  "The  Debate  on  the  Drama;"  "The  Eyes  of 
Europe  and  the  Eyes  of  the  World  ;  "  "A  Voice  from  the 
Grave,"  none  other  than  that  of  the  late  Marquis  of  Hertford 
speaking  to  the  character,  according  to  Mr.  Thesiger,  of 
Nicholas  Suisse,  his  late  lordship's  valet ;  "  Our  Wants,"  a 
quaint  paper  on  the  "  Wanted  "  advertisement  column  of  the 
Times ;  "  The  Luxury  of  Assault ;"  "  Goose  versus  Eagle,"  a 


PUNCH.  205 

whimsical  article  on  the  Ashburton  treaty;  "Peace  with  the 
Pig-Tails  ;  "  "  The  '  Sabre  '  and  the  '  Cross;'  "  "  Peel's  <  Vel- 
veteens; '  "  "  The  '  Milk'  of  Poor-Law  '  Kindness  ; '"  "  Phi- 
lanthropy and  Fiddling;"  "The  Pope's  Medal;"  "The 
Pearls  of  Parliament ;"  "  Great  Meeting  of  the  Bishops  ;  " 
"  The  Pig-skin  Solomon  ;  "  "  Needles  and  Coronets  ; "  Great 
Meeting  of  the  Duchesses  ;  "  "  Wanted — some  Bishops  !  " 
"A  Royal  Wife  of— £3,000 ! "  &c.  Then  there  were  the 
"Jenkins  Papers,"  in  which  the  Patrician  idolatry  of  the 
Morning  Post  was  whipped  sevei'ely  ;  the  "  Pecksniffery 
Papers  ;  "  squibs  of  all  kinds  by  the  dozen ;  with  bushels  of 
jokes,  sharp  as  crackers,  on  the  passing  follies  of  the  hour. 
All  these,  however,  were  the  lighter,  the  less  important  con- 
tributions made  to  Punch  by  Douglas  Jerrold.  He  gave  the 
journal  its  political  backbone  in  the  "  Q.  Papers  "  undoubt- 
edly ;  but  he  gave  it  more.  He  contributed  chapters  as 
tender  as  the  "  Story  of  a  Feather  "  and  "  Our  Honeymoon; " 
as  dramatic  and  popular  (though  he  was  weary  of  their  popu- 
larity, and  disliked  to  be  known  chiefly  as  their  author)  as 
"  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures  ; "  *  as  sharply  satirical  and 
profoundly  witty  as  "  Punch's  Letters  to  his  Son,"  and 
"  Punch's  Complete  Letter  Writer."  Other  series — as  "  Mrs. 
Bib's  Baby,''  "  The  Female  Robinson  Crusoe  " — of  less  success 
than  the  preceding,  were  his  ;  but  "Our  Honeymoon"  may 
be  said  to  be  the  last  series  of  mark  that  Douglas  Jerrold 
contributed  to  his  favourite  periodical.  All  were  introduced 
in  queer  arabesque  prefaces,  and  in  some  ("Punch's  Letters," 
for  instance)  come  refutations  or  explanations  of  charges  of 
bitterness.  "  It  may  be  charged  against  these  '  Letters,'  " 
says  their  author,  "that  they  are  not  written  in  milk  upon 
rose  leaves.  The  charge  is  undeniably  true.  The  Letter 
Writer,  with  all  decent  meekness,  pleads  guilty  to  it.  A 
porcupine— even  an  infant  porcupine,  with  its  quills  in  the 

These    "Lectures"  have  been  translated  into  almost  all  the  conti- 
nental languages.     I  have  a  Dutch  edition  before  me. 


206  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

down — is  not  a  lamb,  a  snow-white  lamb,  cropping  trefoil  and 
wild  thyme,  and  now  and  then  taking  a  jocund  gambol,  no 
doubt  to  promote  its  digestion.  But  for  this  do  we  blame 
the  porcupine  1  Do  we  call  it  a  monster,  simply  because  its 
quills  are  not  wool1?  No,  it  was  created -a  porcupine,  and 
the  point  to  be  considered  is  this — is  it  a  porcupine,  a  porcu- 
pine of  average  merits,  or  in  all  things  a  most  exemplary 
porcupine  ? "  Then  the  porcupine  as  a  dish  is  contrasted 
with  lamb,  and  the  experience  of  M.  Charlevoix  in  North 
America  is  laid  under  contribution,  to  prove  that  the  prickly 
hog  eats  well.  "  Now,"  adds  the  author,  "  it  is  wished  that 
these  '  Letters '  should  be  treated  by  the  reader  as  North 
American  Indians  are  wont  to  treat  early  porcupines.  They 
may  bear  about  them  the  rudiments  of  quills  ;  but  let  him 
try  what  is  under  them,  strip  off  their  outward  clothing, 
and  then,  literally  hoping  the  best,  let  him  fall  to,  even  as  he 
would  make  essay  on  the  flesh  and  bones  of  a  flayed  young 
porcupine." 

"  Punch's  Letters  "  (they  are  dedicated  to  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain) preach  worldly  wisdom,  in  parables,  stories,  and  by 
examples.  The  very  dedication  is  a  story  of  how  a  certain 
pearl,  destined  to  repose  upon  the  palpitating  bosom  of  an 
Eastern  queen,  fell  into  the  wash  of  a  pig !  But  Punch — 
representing  the  author — in  the  introduction  confesses  that 
his  "  Letters  to  his  Son  "  are  written  in  lemon-j  nice.  The 
son  is  dead.  "  Yes,  mutton  was  his  fate,"  says  the  parental 
Punch;  and  turning  to  the  last  letter  by  the  father,  we  find 
a  few  words  from  the  dear  child.  "  Condemned  Cell,  Neivgate. 
Honoured  Parent, — I  have,  to  the  best  of  my  abilities,  fol- 
lowed the  advice  sent  to  me  from  time  to  time  in  your 
'  Letters.'  You  will,  therefore,  as  the  Ordinary  says,  not  be 
surprised  to  find  I  write  from  this  place.  It  is  a  case  of 
mutton,  and  I  am  to  be  hanged  on  Monday.  Your  Son, 
Punch  the  Younger.  P.S. — You  will  find  that,  in  spite  of  my 
misfortunes,  I  have  the  credit  of  my  family  still  at  heart 


PUNCH.  207 

I  shall,  therefore,  be  hanged  as  John  Jones  !  "  "  My  heroic 
boy  kept  his  word,"  Punch  pere  adds,  "  and  until  this  very 
hour  his  mother  is  ignorant  of  his  fate,  believing  him  to  be 

at  this  moment  ambassador  at  the  court  of  ." 

"  Punch's  Complete  Letter  Writer  "  is  dedicated  to , 


Secretary  to  the  Home  Department.  "  A  mere  high  title," 
says  Punch,  "  at  the  head  of  a  dedication  is  a  piece  of  pom- 
pous lumber.  In  the  shallowness  of  our  judgment,  we  bestow 
a  humiliating  pity  on  the  forlorn  savage  who  lays  his  offering 
of  fruits  and  flowers  before  his  wooden  idol  with  a  formid- 
able name — an  idol  certainly  with  gold  rings  in  its  nose  and 
ears,  and  perhaps  an  uncut  diamond  in  its  forehead  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  an  insensible  block.  The  fruits  shrivel  and  rot 
— the  flowers  die  a  death  of  profitless  sweetness  ;  for  the  idol 
has  no  gustatory  sense,  no  expanding  nostril.  I  say,  we  pity 
the  poor  darkened  fool  who  may  have  risked  his  limbs  for 
cocoa-nuts,  who  may  have  tempted  the  whole  family  of  mortal 
snakes,  groping  his  way  through  woods,  scrambling  up 
ravines  to  gather  flowers,  and  only  to  lay  the  hard  winnings 
of  his  toil  before  a  stock,  a  stone,  that  cannot  even  so  much 
as  wink  a  thankfulness  for  such  desperate  duty  done.  And 
what  shall  we  say  of  the  author  who,  choosing  a  patron 
merely  for  his  titles — for  the  gold  rings  in  his  nose  and  ears, 
and  certainly  not  for  the  diamond  in  his  head — lays  before 
him  a  book  for  which  the  poor  creature  has  not  the  slightest 
relish  1  He  is  incapable  of  tasting  its  deliciousness.  Its  most 
sapid  morsels  lie  in  his  mouth  like  bran.  He  chews  and 
chews  a  prime  cut — yea,  the  veiy  pope's  eye  of  philosophy — 
as  it  were  chopped  hay.  I  bestow  ink  upon  no  such  man. 
And  thou,  sagacious,  and  therefore  pacific  goose,  still  enjoy 
thy  common  right ;  still  with  snaky  neck  search  the  short 
grass  ;  still,  with  fixed  and  meditating  look,  eye  men  askance 
— I  disturb  thee  not ;  I  rifle  not  thy  wing  of  its  grey  wealth 
to  nil)  a  pen  for  such  a  patron." 

But  Punch  dedicated  his  "Complete  Letter  Writer  "  to  the 


20S  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Home  Secretary  on  grounds  then  indisputable,  namely,  be- 
cause this  minister  had  the  whole  run  of  the  Post  Office,  and 
must  there  fore  "  possess  a  most  refined,  most  exquisite  taste, 
for  the  graces  of  epistolary  composition." 

Among  these  letters  is  one  from  a  lady  inquiring  about 
the  character  of  a  servant,  and  one  from  a  servant  inquiring 
about  the  character  of  a  mistress — sharp  satires  on  these 
social  relations.  The  servant  writes  to  a  late  fellow-servant 
living  next  door  to  her  prospective  mistress,  to  know  whether 
Mrs.  Squaw  nags,  and  how  she  allows  her  servants  to  dress. 
"Mind,"  says  Bridget  Duster,  "  I  don't  insist  on  ringlets  in 
the  house,  but  when  I  go  out  I'm  my  own  mistress.  I've 
given  up  two  places  for  my  bird-of-paradise  feather — it  looks 
quite  alive  in  my  white  chip  ! — and  would  give  up  twenty." 
Then  Bridget  must  know  what  is  Mrs.  Squaw's  character  for 
crockery.  Bridget  who  is  courted  by  a  Life  Guardsman — 
"quite  a  building  of  a  man" — grows  pathetic  over  Mrs. 
Squaw's  objection  to  followers.  "No  followers,  indeed  !"  says 
Bridget.  "  No  ;  they  think  that  the  cat  and  the  kettle, 
and  the  kitchen  clock,  are  company  enough  for  a  poor  ser- 
vant. They  never  think  of  us  in  the  long  winter  nights 
when  they  are  playing  at  cards,  or  chatting  with  folks  who've 
dropped  in ;  they  never  think  of  us,  all  alone  as  we  are,  with- 
out a  soul  to  speak  to  !  No,  we  must  have  no  followers, 
though  perhaps  the  parlour's  ringing  again  with  laughter; 
and  our  only  chance  of  opening  our  lips  is  the  chance  of 
being  sent  out  to  get  oysters  for  the  company."  The  pur- 
pose here  is  clear,  as  it  is  clear,  through  its  veil  of  playful 
fancy,  or  behind  the  barb  of  a  sharp  sarcasm,  throughout  the 
"  Letter  Writer ;"  and  the  war  is,  as  ever,  in  behalf  of  the 
weak. 

In  the  "Story  of  a  Feather"  the  single  purpose  of  Douglas 
Jerrold's  writings — that  which  you  shall  find  giving  a  colour 
and  a  solidity  to  his  lightest  effusions,  namely,  the  subduing 
the  falsities  and  the  wrongs  that  he  saw  about  him — flows 


PUNCH.  209 

quietly  tluough  the  serious  as  well  as  the  livelier  parts  of  the 
book.  "  The  Story''  is  accepted  as  "  a  good  expression  of  his 
more  earnest  and  tender  mood."  I  am  reminded,  by  a  friendly 
critic,  of  the  delicacy  with  which  all  the  part  about  the  poor 
actress  is  woi-ked  up.  "  How  moral,  how  stoical,  the  feeling 
that  pervades  it !  The  bitterness  is  healthy — healthy  as 
bark."  The  success  of  this  story  has  been  greater  than  that 
of  any  other  written  by  Douglas  Jerrold,  the  reason  being 
that  there  is  strong  dramatic  interest  woven  about  a  happy 
idea.  The  natural  way  in  which  the  feather  travels,  now  to 
the  cot  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  now,  draggled,  to  the 
theatre  ;  how  it  is  taken  to  a  tavern,  and  left  in  a  hackney 
coach  ;  how  it  finds  its  way  to  Newgate  ;  and  the  stories 
that  naturally  turn  up  here  and  there,  as  that  of  the  Countess 
of  Blushrose  and  her  babe  (a  true  incident,  by  the  way,  given 
to  my  father  by  the  late  Mr.  Wakley);  the  abundant  fancies, 
and  the  poetic  felicities  of  description  which  this  short  story 
includes,  have  been  kindly  dwelt  upon  by  all  critics  who  have 
carefully  read  it.  Mr.  Dickens  wrote,  when  the  stoiy 
appeared  as  a  book,  "  I  am  truly  proud  of  your  remem- 
brance, and  have  put  the  '  Stoiy  of  a  Feather'  on  a  shelf  (not 
an  obscure  one)  where  some  other  feathers  are,  which  it 
shall  help  to  show  mankind  which  way  the  wind  blows,  long 
after  we  know  where  the  wind  comes  from.  I  am  quite  de- 
lighted to  find  that  you  have  touched  the  latter  part  again, 
and  touched  it  with  such  a  delicate  and  tender  hand.  It  is  a 
wise  and  beautiful  book.  I  am  sure  I  may  venture  to  say  so 
to  you,  for  nobody  consulted  it  more  regularly  and  earnestly 
than  I  did,  as  it  came  out  in  Fundi." 

A  critic  of  some  weight,  dealing  recently  with  the  col- 
lected edition  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  writings,  turned  from  the 
lighter  sketches  by  the  author,  to  the  "  Story  of  a  Feather." 
"But  the  'Stoiy  of  a  Feather,'"  he  wrote,  "perhaps,  is  the 
most  affecting,  humanly  ;  and  produces  this  powerful  effect 
from  tin;   relentless  way  in   which  the  terrible  sketching  is 

p 


210  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

faithfully  done,  the  strokes  of  the  pencil  falling  like  strokes 
of  a  whip.  There  is  no  slurring  over,  no  '  idealising'  (which 
so  often  comes  to  mere  falsity)  in  the  descriptions  there. 
Gauntwolf,  for  instance,  will  remain  a  permanent  image  to 
us  for  ever ;  there  is  right  earnestness  in  the  way  in  which 
he  is  depicted ;  he  seems  sent  flying  into  the  realms  of  art  by 
a  kick  from  the  artist.  The  predominant  characteristic  of 
this  story  is  power,  and  the  moral  character  of  it,  earnest- 
ness ;  it  is  painted  with  intensity,  for  it  has  feeling  in  every 
paragraph.  No  'wit'  could  have  written  it,  any  more  than 
he  could  have  written  the  funeral  service." 

This  same  critic  remarks  in  another  place,  "  It  appears  to 
me  diving  very  adroitly  into  the  well  of  Truth.  Especially 
you  may  observe  how  his  [Jerrold's]  mind,  '  getting  under 
weigh ' — be  it  in  story,  moralising,  picturesque  describing, 
mere  playfulness,  or  satirical  irony — accumulates  all  its  re- 
sources, and  conducts  the  journey  with  pomp  and  plentiful- 
ness.  All  sorts  of  ornament,  and  illustrations,  and  allure- 
ments are  heaped  together — flowers,  perfumes,  precious 
stones,  fresh  green  leaves,  images  in  ebony,  ivory,  and  the 
precious  metals.  For  if  impulsive  warmth  be  the  cen- 
tral fact,  lavish  and  brilliant  expression  is  the  secondary 
one." 

"  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures "  were  welcomed  by 
laughing  thousands.  They  appealed  to  English  domesticity. 
They  were  drolleries  to  be  enjoyed  over  tea  and  toast — (some 
of  them  written  to  dictation  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  racked  by 
rheumatism) — as  understandable  in  the  kitchen  as  in  the  draw- 
ing-room— by  the  mechanic's  wife  as  by  her  grace,  slumbering 
under  the  shadow  of  her  ducal  coronet.  Husbands  poked 
the  points  at  their  wives,  and  wives  read  and  laughed,  vow- 
ing  that    Mrs.    Caudle    was   very   like    Mrs.  .     Every 

married  lady  throughout  these  pleasant  realms  saw  a  like- 
ness here  ;  but  to  none  was  the  page  a  looking-glass.  "  It 
has  happened  to  the  writer,"  says  the  pen-and-ink  parent  of 


PUNCH.  211 

Mrs.  C,  "  that  two,  or  three,  or  ten,  or  twenty  gentlewomen 
have  asked  him,  and  asked  in  various  notes  of  wonder,  pity, 
and  reproof,  '  What  could  have  made  you  think  of  Mrs. 
Caudle  ?  How  could  such  a  thing  have  entered  any  man\ 
mind  V  There  are  subjects  that  seem  like  rain-drops  to  fall 
upon  a  man's  head,  the  head  itself  having  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter.  The  result  of  no  train  of  thought,  there  is  the 
picture,  the  statue,  the  book,  wafted  like  the  smallest  seed 
into  the  brain,  to  feed  upon  the  soil,  such  as  it  may  be,  and 
grow  there.  And  this  was,  no  doubt,  the  accidental  cause  of 
the  literary  sowing  and  expansion — unfolding  like  a  night 
flower — of  Mrs.  Caudle." 

Introducing  Mr.  Caudle,  the  patient  listener,  the  writer 
touches  upon  wedding  rings.  "  Manifold  are  the  uses  of 
rings.  Even  swine  are  tamed  by  them ;  you  will  see  a 
vagrant,  hilarious,  devastating  porker — a  full-blooded  fellow 
that  would  bleed  into  many,  many  fathoms  of  black-pudding 
— you  will  see  him,  escaped  from  his  proper  home,  straying 
in  a  neighbour's  garden.  How  he  tramples  upon  the  hearts- 
ease ;  how,  with  quivering  snout,  he  roots  up  lilies  — 
odoriferous  bulbs !  Here  he  gives  a  reckless  snatch  at 
thyme  and  marjoram,  and  there  he  munches  violets  and 
gilly-flowers.  At  length  the  marauder  is  detected,  seized  by 
his  owner,  and  driven,  beaten  home.  To  make  the  porker 
less  dangerous  it  is  determined  that  he  shall  be  ringed. 
The  sentence  is  pronounced — execution  ordered.  Listen 
to  his  screams ! 

'  Would  you  not  think  the  knife  was  in  his  throat  ? 
And  yet  they're  only  boring  through  his  nose  !' 

Hence,  for  all  future  time,  the  porker  behaves  himself  with  a 
sort  of  forced  propriety  ;  for  in  either  nostril  he  carries  a 
ring.  It  is,  for  the  greatness  of  humanity,  a  saddening 
thought,  that  sometimes  men.  must  be  treated  no  better  than 
pigs."     Job  Buffered  the  lectures  of  his  wife  during  thirty 

p  2 


212  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

years,  and  then  used  his  time,  after  Mrs.  C.'a  lamented  death, 
to  set  them  down. 

These  "  Lectures,"  I  make  bold  to  affirm,  are  known  to  all 
the  readers  these  pages  are  likely  to  attract ;  from  the  lecture 
on  Caudle's  loan  of  five  pounds  to  a  friend,  to  that  which 
describes  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Caudle  has  taken  Cold,  and  gives 
the  Tragedy  of  Thin  Shoes.  Mrs.  Caudle  dies ;  and  Punch, 
inditing  a  postscript  to  the  "  Lectures,"  declares  that  if  he 
have  supplied  a  solitary  text  to  meet  any  of  the  manifold 
wrongs  with  which  woman,  in  her  household  life,  is  continu- 
ally pressed  "  by  her  tyrannic  taskmaster,  man,"  he  feels 
that  he  has  only  paid  back  "  one  grain,  hardly  one,  of  that 
mountain  of  more  than  gold "  it  is  his  felicity  to  owe  her. 
Very  happy,  too,  are  the  concluding  words,  in  which  Mr. 
Punch  sets  himself  right  with  the  sex.  He  says,  "  During 
the  progress  of  these  '  Lectures '  it  has  very  often  pained  us, 
and  that  excessively,  to  hear  from  unthinking,  inexperienced 
men — bachelors,  of  course — that  every  woman,  no  matter 
how  divinely  composed,  has,  in  her  ichor-flowing  veins,  one 
drop,  'no  bigger  than  a  wren's  eye,'  of  Caudle;  that  Eve  her- 
self may  now  and  then  have  been  guilty  of  a  lecture,  mur- 
muring it  balmily  amongst  the  rose  leaves.  It  may  be  so  ; 
still,  be  it  our  pride  never  to  believe  it.     Never  ! " 

"  Mr.  Caudle's  Breakfast  Talk,"  which  appeared  subse- 
quently in  one  of  "  Punch's  Almanacs,"  attracted  very 
little  attention.  Job  was  flat  after  his  wife.  The  author,  it 
has  been  said  in  print,  took  the  popularity  of  "  The  Caudle 
Lectures "  somewhat  "  sulkily,"  as  he  took  his  fame  as  the 
author  of  Black-Eyed  Susan;  for  the  simple  and  obvious 
reason  that  he  knew  he  had  written  far  better  things  than 
these  ;  and  that,  consequently,  his  reputation  was  not  fairly 
based.  He  would  have  been  known  as  the  author  of  "  Clover- 
nook,"  Bubbles  of  the  Day,  Time  Works  Wonders,  the  "  Man 
Made  of  Money,"  and  the  "  Story  of  a  Feather."  But  he 
w.is  delighted — as  delighted  as  the  proprietors — to  see  the 


PUNCH.  213 

circulation  of  Punch  grow,  even  under  the  nightcap  of  Mrs. 
Caudle.  He  went,  radiant,  to  the  weekly  Punch  dinners  ; 
and  was  merry  there  in  the  midst  of  the  men  he  had  met,  for 
years,  over  that  kindly,  social  hoard. 

Amid  all  these  series,  he  still  cast  his  keen  weapons  about 
him,  in  paragraphs,  in  lines,  in  two  or  three  words.  Up  and 
down  the  broken,  lively  columns  of  Punch,  through  thirty- 
four  solid  volumes,  you  may  trace  jokes  and  sarcasms  hurled 
at  social  grievances  ;  quaint  allegories — now  the  "  Boa  and 
the  Blanket,"  turning  to  proper  ridicule  Mr.  Warren's  Exhi- 
bition poem,  and  now  the  Burns'  Festival,  in  its  short- 
comings. Presently  come,  trooping  from  his  pen,  "Twelve 
Fireside  Saints"  to  sit  about  men's  Christmas  hearths,  in 
1S57.  They  are  holy  little  presences  these,  with  each  her 
special  shining  virtue  to  be  imitated.  Any  home  shall  be  the 
better  for  looking  at — for  studying  them.  They  were  the 
author's  last  marked  success  in  Punch  — that  is,  the  last 
things  of  his  which  the  public  seized  upon,  and  welcomed, 
acknowledging  their  author. 

Only  ten  days  befoi-e  his  death  Douglas  Jerrold  wrote  for 
Punch.  The  Punch  boy  was  announced  at  Kilburn  Priory 
on  Friday,  the  29th  of  May,  1857,  as  he  had  been  announced 
in  the  old  contributor's  study,  every  week  for  the  last  seven- 
teen years.  There  sits  the  author  at  his  desk.  A  goodly 
bunch  of  flowers — culled  this  morning  by  his  daughter  Mary, 
and  to  him,  taking  a  special  sweetness  from  this  fact — lies  in 
a  green  goblet  before  him.  A  pile  of  gaudy  books  for  review 
are  piled  up  at  his  side  ;  his  paper  basket  is  brimmed  ; 
and  upon  his  desk  lie  two  or  three  little  slips  of  blue 
paper,  with  writing  upon  them  that  is  smaller  than  the 
smallest  type. 

The  face  is  a  little  pale,  and  very  white  the  hair  looks  to- 
day. 

The  few  blue  slips  are  neatly  folded  in  an  envelope  ;  the 
"Punch  boy"  is  told  that  he  may  go  when  he  has  dined ;  and 


214  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JEREOLD. 

the  author  puts  down  his  favourite  gold  pen,  having  marked 
subjects  he  will  treat  in  coming  weeks. 

Men  are  painting  the  iron  steps  that  lead  from  the  study 
window  to  the  garden.  He,  for  whose  use  these  steps  are 
designed — who  promises  himself  the  pleasure  of  walking  down 
them  into  some  shady  place  in  the  garden,  in  full  summer — 
complains  of  the  paint.  He  never  could  stand  the  paint. 
He  has  had  the  painter's  cholera.  Alas  !  it  is  not  the  paint 
this  time ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

MAGAZINES    AND    NEWSPAPERS. 

The  "  Story  of  a  Feather,"  the  "  Q."  articles,  &c,  which  in 
the  year  1843  were  appearing  in  Punch,  did  not — even  in 
addition  to  the  demands  of  theatrical  managers — wholly 
engross  the  industry  of  Douglas  Jerrold.  Returned  from 
Boulogne  at  the  end  of  1841,  he  had  established  himself  in 
a  very  pretty  cottage  in  Park  Village  East,  Regent's  Park, 
where  he  had  a  study  that  was  bowered  by  trees,  away  from 
the  main  road.  Hither,  to  his  busy  hive,  in  the  spring  of 
1643,  came  some  gentlemen,  proposing  to  him  to  enter  upon 
a  new  field  of  action.  He  was  as  ready  as  ever.  Friends 
would  be  about  him ;  there  were  ideas  to  be  gathered  and 
worked  out  together,  and  happy  meetings  over  the  work,  in 
the  prospect.  The  notion  was,  The  Illuminated  Magazine ; 
proprietor,  Mr.  Herbert  Ingram,  of  The  Illustrated  London 
News.  It  was  soon  before  the  world — Douglas  Jerrold 
editor. 

In  this  magazine  an  endeavour  was  made  to  combine 
the  attractions  of  good  authors  and  good  artists.  Two  old, 
very  old,  friends  figure  in  the  list.  Comes  genial  Laman 
Blanchard  with  "  Nell  Gwynne's  Looking-glass;  "  and  happy, 
conversational  Meadows  (to  be  understood  yet),  with  the 
j '  mil  that  shall  draw  presently  the  glowing  "  Gratis  "  and 
the  rotund  Hermit  of  Bellyfulle.  Peake  is  here  too.  And 
come  trooping  after  him,  writers  whom  the  kind-hearted 
editor  knows,  and  whom  he  cannot  refuse,     He  will  chafe 


216  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

and  fume  as  he  reads  their  proofs — but  que  voulez-vous  ? 
Is  there  not  something  holy  in  the  brotherhood  of  letters  1 
and  is  it  not  a  vital,  cupboard  matter  that  these  things 
shall  appear?  Oh  !  for  that  no  that  should  have  been  said 
loner  ago — that  should  have  been  nailed  as  the  best  shield 
in  naming  letters  over  the  study  door.  The  man  within — 
whom  the  world  calls  stern  and  bitter — needs  this  word, 
more  than  any  man  I  have  known,  above  his  door.  The 
want  of  it  shall  be  felt  by  him  and  his — has  been  felt — 
and  bitterly.  The  men  who  shall  owe  him  a  kindness — 
to  be  paid  in  roses  cast  upon  his  grave — are  gathering 
thickly  about  him.  Some,  the  kindness  accorded,  to  turn 
their  back,  with  tongue  in  cheek.  But  what  of  that  1  Let 
them  pass.  The  faith  in  good  burns  still,  and  you  shall 
never  quench  it.  The  last  thing  that  frail  hand  lying  upon 
that  green  desk  shall  write,  will  be  a  good  done  to  a  fellow- 
man,  which  that  fellow-man  shall  walk  away  with  and  forget, 
as  though  he  had  been  carelessly  sauntering  down  a  lane, 
and  had  lopped  a  primrose  from  its  stem  ! 

But  our  business  is  with  the  new  magazine.  It  appeared 
regularly  through  many  months  ;  and  it  will  be  remembered, 
many  years  after  death,  as  the  vehicle  that  gave  birth  to  the 
"  Chronicles  of  Clovernook,"  with  Kenny  Meadows'  masterly 
illustrations  of  them  ;  and  to  essays  by  the  editor  like  "  The 
Two  Windows "  (of  a  workhouse),  "  The  Old  Man  at  the 
Gate,"  "The  Order  of  Poverty,"  "The  Folly  of  the 
Sword,"  &c,  &c. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  good  nature  that  was  warmed  to 
enthusiasm — almost  blind  enthusiasm — when  any  one  near 
or  dear,  or  both,  was  concerned.  I,  a  boy  about  fourteen 
years  of  age  at  the  time  when  the  early  numbers  of  The 
Illuminated  Magazine  appeared — I,  hoped  to  be  an  artist ; 
and  with  enthusiastic  fondness,  my  father  occasionally  dropped 
into  my  room  to  admire  my  studies  from  nature.  We  went 
together  one  day,  in   1843,  while  he  had  a  cottage  a  few 


MAGAZINES  AND  NEWSPAPERS.  217 

miles  from  Heme  Bay,  across  country,  in  lovely  weather  (and 
nowhere  is  lovely  weather  lovelier  than  over  a  Kentish  land- 
scape), through  the  village  of  Heme.  We  crossed  the  pretty 
churchyard,  and  went  strolling  up  the  rise  in  the  rich  park 
behind  it.  As  we  approached  the  summit  of  the  gentle  hill, 
amid  splendid  umbrageous  trees,  we  saw  in  the  distance,  a 
long,  low  building,  with  two  narrow  windows  in  it.  It  was 
the  workhouse.  There  might  have  been  a  splendid  view  from 
it.  But  blank  walls  were  there,  for  paupers  were  within. 
My  father  could  hardly  contain  his  indignation.  He  wrote 
the  essay  on  the  morrow  entitled  "  The  Two  Windows,"  and 
bade  me  illustrate  it.  The  wood-block  came  from  London. 
I  did  my  best,  and  it  is  in  the  magazine,  the  unworthy 
heading  to  the  essay.  But  he  thought  well  of  it,  and 
I  was  proud  indeed.  This  by  way  of  illustration  of  his 
irrepressible  leaning  to  all  whom  he  loved,  in  any  efforts  of 
theirs. 

The  "  Chronicles  of  Clovernook,"  "  Chronicles  of  Goose- 
quill  " — a  fragmentary  record  of  a  region  no  less  real  than 
the  earth  that  is  trod  upon,  "  because  only  visited  on  wings," 
— are  the  papers  which  will,  I  take  it,  preserve  The  Illu- 
minated Magazine  from  oblivion. 

These  "  Chronicles  "  the  author  always  put  forth  as  the 
outspeaking  of  his  real  nature—  of  the  poetry,  the  earnest 
love  of  the  lovely — that  was  within  him.  The  "  Man  Made 
of  Money  "  may  be  more  perfect  as  a  work  of  art ;  but  in  the 
"  Chronicles  "  lies  the  soul  of  the  writer,  and  all  persons  who 
knew  him,  recognise  this  fact  easily.  That  keen  sense  of 
the  beauty  of  nature — the  eye  that  loved  to  turn  from  the 
workday  world,  and  feed  upon  hedgerows,  and  woody 
glades,  and  blue,  fading  distance — the  spirit  that  rollicked 
in  free,  unconventional  life,  and  bore  the  chains  of  city 
rules  chafing  and  ill  at  ease — that  love  of  the  country, 
which  was  a  true  part  of  a  thorough  sailor  nature — are 
here  expressed — tinged  with  a  devout  religion,  in  no  way 


218  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JEKROLD. 

shackled  by  formula,  as  the  mummy  is  swathed  in  band- 
ages. As  I  have  elsewhere  shown,  the  author  pointed  to 
a  passage'  in  "  Clovernook,"  when  talking  with  a  friend,  as 
that  which  expressed  him  better  than  any  other  passage  of 
his  many  writings.  Clovernook  is  a  fairy  land,  with  this 
difference  from  common  fairy  land — that  it  has  root  in  the 
soil  under  our  feet.  It  show's  man,  with  plenty  about  him, 
the  laws  which  govern  jnenty  set  aside.  It  shows  men 
living  in  the  warm  arms  of  nature — nor  chaffering,  nor 
pressing  nails  in  one  another's  throat.  The  Gratis  is  an 
inn  where  many  would  gladly  tarry.  About  Clovernook 
are  mossy  fields — none  softer  nor  more  grateful  to  the  foot 
of  man.  The  Hermit — "  Well,"  says  Mr.  Dickens,  writing 
to  the  author,  "  a  thousand  thanks "  for  him.  "  He  took 
my  fancy  mightily  when  I  first  saw  him  in  The  Illumi- 
nated ;  and  I  have  stowed  him  away  in  the  left-hand  beast- 
pocket  of  my  travelling  coat,  that  we  may  hold  pleasant 
converse  together  on  the  Rhine.  You  see  what  confidence  I 
have  in  him." 

The  Illuminated  Magazine  lasted  some  two  years,  and 
then  died.  The  editor,  busy  still  with  many  projects,  had  re- 
moved from  the  Regent's  Park  to  West  Lodge,  Putney  Lower 
Common.  In  January,  18-15,  undaunted  by  a  past  failure, 
he  started  Douglas  JerrohVs  Shilling  Magazine  with  Messrs. 
Bradbury  and  Evans.  The  year  1845  was,  perhaps,  the 
most  active  twelvemonth  Douglas  Jerrold  passed.  In  this 
year  he  wrote  copiously  in  Punch;  in  his  own  magazine 
"  St.  Giles  and  St.  James,"  and  the  "  Hedgehog  Letters ; " 
in  the  Daily  News,  just  started,  leaders ;  for  the  stage,  Time 
Works  Wonders;  and  it  was  in  this  year  that  he  was  first 
called  personally  before  the  public.  The  call  was  to  Bir- 
mingham ;  but  of  this  presently. 

The  Shilling  Magazine  achieved  a  great  success,  for  the 
editor  had  become  undoubtedly  a  powerful  speaker  in  the 
state  on  the  Radical  side.     His  story  of  "  St.  Giles  and  St. 


MAGAZINES  AND  NEWSPAPERS.  219 

James"  was  extremely  popular.  It  subject  is  told  in  its 
title  ;  its  treatment  they  can  understand  who  know  anything 
of  Douglas  Jerrold's  writings.  It  was  said  again,  of  course, 
that  it  was  the  object  of  the  writer  to  set  class  against  class 
— the  easy  taunt  made  by  the  flourishing  against  all  who 
preach  the  cause  of  the  suffering  poor.  When  the  story, 
revised,  was  presented  to  the  public  in  a  complete  form,  the 
author  protested  against  the  charge  of  "  a  cleaving  desire  to 
despoil  the  high  for  the  profit  of  the  low  ;  "  of  "a  besetting 
tendency  to  reverse  as  a  sort  of  moral  Robin  Hood,  stripping 
the  rich  of  their  virtues  that  only  the  veriest  poor  might 
strut  in  the  plunder."  From  this  verdict  the  author  appeals, 
"  somewhat  confidently,"  to  readers  who  may  give  his  book 
"  a  dispassionate  perusal."  The  author's  intention  is  set 
forth  in  his  own  words  : — "  It  has  been  my  endeavour  to 
show,  in  the  person  of  St.  Giles,  the  victim  of  an  ignorant 
disregard  of  the  social  claims  of  the  poor  upon  the  rich  ;  of 
the  governed  million  upon  the  governing  few  ;  to  present — 
I  am  well  aware  how  imperfectly — but  with  no  wilful 
exaggeration  of  the  portraiture — the  picture  of  the  infant 
pauper  reared  in  brutish  ignorance,  a  human  waif  of  dirt  and 
darkness.  Since  the  original  appearance  of  this  stoiy,  the 
reality  of  this  picture,  in  all  its  vital  and  appalling  horror, 
has  forced  itself  upon  the  legislature,  has  engaged  its 
anxious  thoughts,  and  will  ultimately  triumph  in  its  hu- 
manising sympathies.  I  will  only  add  that,  upon  an  after- 
revision  of  this  story,  I  cannot  think  myself  open  to  the 
charge  of  bedizening  St.  Giles  at  the  cost  of  St.  James ;  or 
of  making  Hog  Lane  the  treasury  of  all  the  virtues,  to  the 
moral  sacking  of  May  fair.  *  *  *  *  In  conclusion,  I 
submit  this  volume  to  the  generous  interpretation  of  the 
reader.  Some  of  it  has  been  called  'bitter;'  indeed  'bitter' 
has,  I  think,  a  little  too  often  been  the  ready  word  when 
certain  critics  have  condescended  to  bend  their  eyes  upon  my 
page  \  so  ready  that,  were  my  ink  redolent  of  myrrh  and 


220  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

frankincense,  I  well  know  the  sort  of  ready-made  criticism 
that  would  cry,  with  a  denouncing  shiver,  '  Aloes,  aloes  ! '  " 

Yet  the  purpose,  the  strong  purpose,  was  not  to  be  given 
up.  The  magazine  had  been  started  by  its  enthusiastic 
editor  to  make  its  voice  heard,  not  in  boudoirs,  but  in  the 
high  places,  where  action  for  the  good  of  the  people  might  be 
the  result.  It  may  be  said  that  the  machinery  brought  to 
bear  upon  so  ambitious  an  operation  was  weak  and  poor ; 
but  it  was  all  that  could  be  done  by  the  earnest  man 
who  put  it  forth,  and  it  did  its  good,  we  may  rest  assured, 
for  at  one  time  some  nine  thousand  persons  bought  the  result 
every  month. 

Few  volumes  appeared,  however,  and  another  and  a  more 
important  organ  was  suddenly  opened  to  Douglas  Jerrold. 

He  gives  his  reasons  for  the  new  venture  in  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Forster.  He  writes  :  "  When  last  we  met  I  had  given 
up  a  project  entertained  by  me  for  some  week  or  two  pre- 
vious, and  believed  that  I  could  eke  out  time  to  meet  your 
wishes.  Such  project  is  again  renewed  (it  is  that  of  a  Sunday 
newspaper),  and  therefore,  with  what  I  am  already  engaged 
in,  will  fully  employ  me.  I  am  induced  to  this  venture, 
first,  by  the  belief  that  I  can  carry  it  out  with  at  least  fair 
success ;  and,  secondly,  that  it  affords  to  me  the  opportunity 
of  asserting  my  own  mind  (such  as  it  is),  without  the  bitter 
annoyance  (for  I  have  recently  felt  it)  of  having  the  endea- 
vours of  some  years  negatived,  '  humanised '  away  by  con- 
tradiction, and  what  appears  to  me,  gross  inconsistency." 
He  must  have  written  also  to  Mr.  Dickens  on  the  subject, 
for,  in  a  letter  dated  Geneva,  October  24th,  1846,  Mr. 
Dickens  writes  :  "  I  feel  all  you  say  upon  the  subject  of  the 
literary  man  in  his  old  age,  and  know  the  incalculable  bene- 
fits of  such  a  resource.  You  can  hardly  fail  to  realise  an 
independent  property  from  such  success,  and  I  congratulate 
you  upon  it  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  Two  numbers  of 
*.  The  Barber's  Chair '  have  reached  me.     It  is  a  capital  idea, 


MAGAZINES  AND  NEWSPAPERS.  221 

and  capable  of  the  best  and  readiest  adaptation  to  things  as 
they  arise,"  &c. 

Douylas  Jerrold's  Weekly  Newspaper  appeared  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1S46.  It  was,  for  some  time,  a  great  success.  The 
editor  had  undoubtedly  become  a  literary  power  in  the  state, 
and  the  large  masses  of  the  people  were  on  his  side,  and 
welcomed  the  elegance,  the  wit,  and  the  fancy  in  which  he 
knew,  and  knew  alone  in  his  time,  how  to  clothe  Radicalism. 
"  The  Barber's  Chair,"  for  instance,  was  a  dialogue  carried  on 
among  a  barber  and  his  customers  on  the  affairs  of  the  week 
— carried  on  with  all  the  sparkle  and  tenderness  of  the  author 
of  Bubbles  of  the  Day  and  Time  Works  Wonders.  The  leaders 
were  strong  outspeakings  on  the  Liberal  side — against  all 
aristocratic  pretension,  against  hanging,  against  flogging, 
against  the  Hugh  M'Neales,  and  others.  The  hammer  came 
with  a  heavy  thump,  for  the  smith  was  in  downright  earnest. 
"  The  Radical  literature  of  England,"  one  of  his  critics  has 
justly  remarked,  "  with  few  exceptions,  was  of  a  prosaic  cha- 
racter. The  most  famous  school  of  Radicalism  is  utilitarian 
and  systematic.  Douglas  was,  emphatically,  neither.  He 
was  impulsive,  epigrammatic,  sentimental.  He  dashed  gaily 
against  an  institution,  like  a  picador  at  a  bull.  He  never  sat 
down,  like  the  regular  workers  of  his  pai'ty,  to  calculate  the 
expenses  of  monarchy  or  the  extravagance  of  the  civil  list. 
He  had  no  notion  of  any  sort  of  '  economy.'  I  don't  know 
that  he  had  ever  taken  up  political  science  seriously,  or  that 
he  had  any  preference  for  one  form  of  government  over 
another.  I  repeat,  his  Radicalism  was  that  of  a  humorist. 
He  despised  big-wigs  and  pomp  of  all  sorts,  and,  above  all, 
humbug  and  formalism.  But  his  Radicalism  was  important 
as  a  sign  that  our  institutions  are  ceasing  to  be  picturesque  ; 
of  which,  if  you  consider  his  nature,  you  will  see  that  his 
Radicalism  wcu  a  sign.  And  he  did  service  to  his  cause.  Not 
an  abuse,  whether  from  the  corruption  of  something  old,  or 
the  injustice  of  something  new,  but  Douglas  was  out  against 


222  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

it  with  his  sling.  He  threw  his  thought  into  some  epigram 
which  stack.  *  *  *  Recommending  Australia,  he  wrote 
'  Earth  is  so  kindly  there,  that,  tickle  her  with  a  hoe,  and 
she  laughs  with  a  harvest.'  This  is  in  his  best  manner,  and 
would  be  hard  to  match  anywhere  for  grace  and  neatness. 
Here  was  a  man  to  serve  his  cause,  for  he  embodied  its 
truths  in  forms  of  beauty.  His  use  to  his  party  could  not 
be  measured  like  that  of  commoner  men,  because  of  the 
rarity  and  attractive  nature  of  the  gifts  which  he  brought  to 
its  service.  They  had  a  kind  of  incalculable  value,  like  that 
of  a  fine  day,  or  of  starlight." 

More  may  be  said  :  it  is  this — that  Douglas  Jerrold  was 
enthusiastic  on  the  popular  side,  as  Shelley  was.  He  never 
cared  to  dabble  in  statistics,  proving  the  exact  sum  given 
away  in  sinecures — to  weigh  to  a  scruple  the  influence  of  the 
House  of  Lords  in  the  House  of  Commons.  He  took  broad, 
patent  facts,  great  indisputable  wrongs,  and  drove  sharp 
epigrams  into  the  heart  of  them,  or  entangled  them  in  the 
mazes  of  some  bright  fancies,  or  heightened  their  hideousness 
to  the  dull  public  eye  by  dexterous  and  picturesque  con- 
trasts. This  was  the  work  accomplished  in  Douglas  Jer- 
rold's  Weekly  Newspaper  while  Douglas  Jerrold  was  its 
editor.  But  after  a  time  the  newspaper  began  to  droop. 
Let  us  not  inquire  too  narrowly  how  it  fell.  Whether  again, 
men,  ill  adapted  to  the  work,  were  fastened  upon  it  by  the 
good-natured  editor,  and  bore  it  down ;  whether  the  editor 
himself,  suddenly  seized  with  a  desire  to  be  at  rest  some- 
where on  the  seashore,  and  drawn  irresistibly  to  Guernsey, 
to  the  sick  bed  of  a  beloved  daughter,  neglected  it.  But 
here  is  the  fact.  About  six  months  after  the  paper  was 
started,  and  after  it  had  achieved  a  most  remunerative  sale, 
it  began  to  break  down.  Undoubtedly  its  editor  was  away  ; 
undoubtedly  his  pen  was  not  often  to  be  traced  in  its  pages, 
and  the  newsboys  began  to  poke  their  knowing  heads  be- 
tween the  damp  sheets,  to  see  whether  there  was  a  "  Barber's 


MAGAZINES  AND   NEWSPAPERS.  223 

Thair  "  that  week,  before  they  gave  their  orders.  This  was 
3ad,  for  the  journal  might  have  been  a  permanent  property, 
'leturned  to  town,  to  find  the  paper  fallen ; — now  hardly 
irofitable ;  the  editor  soon  wearied  of  it.  He  could  not 
ielp  it.  His  nature  was  mercurial.  Let  him  once  look 
upon  a  thing  as  a  failure,  and  it  was  all  over  with  him.  He 
must  mount  with  the  rocket,  and  shine  in  the  high  heavens 
i — not  fall  with  the  stick. 

In  1848,  however,  urged  hotly  by  friends,  yet  himself  not 
too  well  disposed  to  the  expedition,  he  started,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  George  Hodder  in  the  capacity  of  secretary,  for  Paris, 
there  to  tread  the  hot  ground  of  the  recent  revolution,  and 
give  his  vivid  emotions  back  to  the  English  public.  But  he 
was  moodj'  when  he  arrived.  He  was  stirred  mightily,  it  is 
true,  by  the  noble  position  of  De  Lamartiue,  and  was  intro- 
duced to  him  ;  but  he  could  not  see  his  way  clear — his  heart 
was  not  in  the  work.  He  wandered  about,  saw  Louis 
Philippe's  portrait  turned  to  the  wall  at  Versailles,  wrote 
one  paper  of  impressions,  and  then  prepared  to  return  to 
London.  He  had  gone  armed  with  a  bundle  of  letters  of 
introduction.  "  There,"  said  he,  as  he  arranged  his  desk, 
giving  a  packet  to  Mr.  Hodder,  "burn  that — they're  my 
letters  of  introduction."  And  home  he  went.  The  paper 
fell  rapidly  afterwards,  and  at  last  its  editor  was  saddled  with 
a  heavy  debt,  which  was  never  paid  till  his  death,  and  was 
then  discharged  by  a  life  policy. 

His  name  was  withdrawn  from  the  ghost  of  the  journal, 
and  it  became  the  Weekly  News,  and  was  subsequently 
merged  (if  anything  remained  to  be  merged)  in  the  )Veelhy 
Chronicle.  "  The  Hermit  of  Pall  Mall "  and  other  series 
were  begun  in  this  journal  while  it  remained  in  the  hands  of 
its  original  editor ;  but  none  were  carried  beyond  two  or 
three  weeks.  There  was  a  cloud  over  the  thing,  and  the 
editor  shivered  under  it,  and  could  not  warm  to  his  usual 
heat. 


224  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

The  magazine  was  continued,  however,  while  the  journal 
was  in  existence ;  but  it  was  dying,  like  the  newspaper. 
"  Twiddlethumb  Town,"  a  remarkable  beginning  of  a  re- 
markable idea,  was  published  in  it,  in  its  expiring  "moments, 
and  gave,  perhaps,  a  short  galvanic  movement  to  it ;  but  the 
seeds  of  death  were  in  it,  and  it  was  soon  put  aside. 

Then  appeared  the  first  number,  in  1851,  of "  A  Man 
Made  of  Money,"  the  only  story  ever  published,  originally, 
in  a  separate  form,  by  Douglas  Jerrold.  Speaking  of  this 
romance,  the  critic  whom  I  have  already  quoted,  says : — 

"  It  bids  fair,  I  think,  to  be  read  longer  than  any  of  his 
works.  It  is  one  of  those  fictions  in  which,  as  in  '  Zanoni,' 
'  Peter  Schlemil,'  and  others,  the  supernatural  appears  as  an 
element,  and  yet  is  made  to  conform  itself  in  action  to  real 
and  every-day  life,  in  such  a  way  that  the  understanding  is 
not  shocked  ;  because  it  re-assures  itself,  by  referring  the 
supernatural  to  the  regions  of  allegory.  '  A  Man  Made  of 
Money '  is  the  completest  of  his  books  as  a  creation,  and  the 
most  characteristic  in  point  of  style— is  based  on  a  principle 
which  predominated  in  his  mind — is  the  most  original  in 
imaginativeness,  and  the  best  sustained  in  point  and  neat- 
ness, of  the  works  he  has  left." 

It  was  also  the  last.  Still,  it  will  be  seen,  the  middy  of 
Sheerness  turns  seaward.  His  last  words  in  his  last  book 
are,  '"'Bout  ship!'  cries  the  captain.  The  yards  swing 
round— the  canvas  swells  as  with  the  breath  of  good  spirits. 
May  such  await  the  trusting  and  courageous  hearts  our 
vessel  carries — await  on  them  and  all,  who,  seeking  a  new 
home,  sail  the  mighty  deep  !  " 

Remains  to  be  chronicled  the  last  literary  undertaking  to 
which  Douglas  Jerrold's  name  is  attached.  In  the  spring  of 
1852  he  became  editor  of  Mr.  Lloyd's  Weekly  Neivspaper. 
Critics  were  busy  with  the  prudence  of  the  step ;  but  the 
new  editor  had  made  up  his  mind,  this  time,  to  speak  to 
tens  of  thousands  of  readers,  and  that  fervently  and  con- 


MAGAZINES  AND  NEWSPAPERS.  225 

stantly.  He  saw  in  this  engagement,  which  yielded  him 
.£10UC  per  annum,  without  risk  of  any  kind,  the  ease  that 
would  enable  him,  with  his  Punch  engagement,  to  afford 
himself  the  leisure  which  he  had  fairly  won.  The  acres  of 
paper  he  had  covered — the  dramas  he  had  thrown  out  by 
the  dozen — the  fair  successes  he  had  achieved — and  the 
position  of  honour  in  which  he  now  found  himself  in  intel- 
lectual society,  all  tended  to  make  him  less  prodigal  of  his 
ink.  He  had  much  to  say,  however,  to  the  people.  Shams 
were  still  abroad  to  be  battered  and  annihilated  ;  there  were 
oppressions  still  to  beat  down  in  behalf  of  the  public :  the 
gibbet  still  reared  its  sable  head  amid  mobs  of  yelling 
savages  before  Newgate  ;  the  people  over  the  water  were 
under  the  iron  thumb  of  the  despot  of  the  2nd  of  December  ; 
and  in  the  highways  of  England  were  still  pluralists  and 
hoarding  bishops.  From  his  stern  independence  no  minister 
could  wring  the  shadow  of  a  promise.  He  was  said  to  be 
blind  to  his  own  interests ;  but  he  was  true  to  his  own 
noble,  passionate  heart.  I  find,  neatly  pasted  in  his  scrap- 
book,  and  signed  "  N.  W.,"  the  following 

"LINES  ON  LINES. 

"  Curved  is  the  line'  of  Beauty, 
Straight  is  the  line  of  Duty  : 
Walk  by  the  last,  and  thou  wilt  see 
The  other  ever  follow  thee." 

These  words  vibrated  harmoniously  within  him.  When 
he  obtained  from  Lord  John  Russell  a  post  for  his  son  in 
the  Treasury,  he  felt  somewhat  uneasy  under  the  obliga- 
tion. It  chafed  his  spirit  to  think  that,  in  anything  he 
might  have  to  write  on  the  future  political  conduct  of 
the  Doble  member  for  London,  he  might  feel  his  pen 
embarrassed  by  this  favour.  But  Lord  John,  it  is  right 
here  to  record  the  fact,  was  the  only  statesman  in  whom 
he  thoroughly   believed ;    and    in    whose    conscientiousness, 


220  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

much  as  he  disliked  some  of  his  lordship's  political  attitudes, 
he  put  faith. 

Lloyd's  Newspaper,  under  Douglas  Jerrold's  editorship, 
rose  by  thousands  weekly.  He  was  proud  of  the  rise,  and 
would  talk  happily  of  it  over  his  study  fire  on  Sundays — 
days  on  which  I  always  made  a  point  of  dining  with  him — 
on  which,  indeed,  he  was  grieved  if  all  his  children  within 
reach,  were  not  about  him.  Friends  said  that  he  would  soon 
grow  tired  of  the  paper.  But  he  held  to  it — even  when  ill 
— manfully.  Now  and  then  his  pertinacious  enemy,  rheu- 
matism, would  be  too  much  for  him,  and  work  was  impos- 
sible. In  the  beginning  of  1854,  for  instance,  a  severe 
attack  in  the  eyes,  during  the  violence  of  which  he  could 
hardly  distinguish  the  window  from  the  wall,  prostrated  him 
utterly.  Then  he  left  his  weekly  tasks  to  the  humble  wxiter 
of  these  pages — pleased  and  comforted,  it  is  a  happiness  to 
remember,  that  in  his  own  sou  he  could  find  an  interpreter. 
Then  occasionally  the  passion  for  travel,  of  which  I  have  yet 
to  speak  in  a  subsequent  chapter,  would  seize  upon  him,  and 
he  would  be  off,  leaving  me  a  few  lines,  a  few  hints,  and  the 
editorship  !  *  But  these  rare  occasions  were  separated  by 
long  months  of  constant  aud  enthusiastic  work.  His  leaders 
were  unlike  those  of  any  other  journal.  If  another  paper 
went  gravely  to  work,  to  prove  how  Mr.  Cochrane  and  his 
soup  kitchens  were  not  to  be  regarded  altogether  with 
revereuce,  the  editor  of  Lloyds  threw  out  some  humorous 
suggestion.  Mr.  Cochrane  had  become  a  verbose  bore. 
Douglas  Jerrold  suggested  that  he  should  return  to  his  soup 
kettle  ;  and,  added  the  adviser,  "  when  he  is  fairly  in  it,  may 
some  discreet  friend  kindly  put  the  lid  on."  For  dabblers — 
with  a  strong  dasli  of  the  mountebank,  even  when  there  was 
a  basis  of  real  good  nature — of  the  Cochrane  stamp,  made 
Douglas  Jerrold  very  angry.     Anything  that  looked  like  an 

*  An  editorship  which  it  has  been  my  pride  to  hold,  with  ever-increasing 
prosperity  to  the  present  time,  September,  1867. 


MAGAZINES  AND   NEWSPAPERS.  227 

endeavour  to  turn  philanthropy  into  political  capital,  jarred 
in  his  soul.  But  when  the  stamp  of  patriotism  looked 
genuine  he  was  enthusiastic  at  once.  Perhaps  he  was  easily 
deceived.  He  could  not  go  about  the  world  probing  the 
•moral  truth  of  men  ;  he  took  such  truth,  in  most  instances, 
for  granted.  But  just  as  you  could  not  persuade  him  that  a 
Kossuth,  under  any  circumstances,  could  be  a  false  man,  so 
you  could  never  prove  to  him  that  there  was  good  in  a  Louis 
Napoleon.  Indeed,  he  would  not  listen  to  your  arguments  ; 
his  indignation  boiled  over  at  once,  and  he  would  point  vehe- 
mently to  the  damning  spots,  nor  could  you  make  his  finger 
move  from  them. 

Political  truth  was  a  passion  with  him.  I  remember  a 
heated  discussion  that  took  place,  the  subject  being  the 
length  to  which  a  man  might  justly  go  in  defence  of  his 
opinions.  My  father  grew  very  excited  in  the  course  of  the 
discussion — vowed  that  a  man  should  sacrifice  eveiything  for 
his  opinions.  Suddenly,  his  eyes  flashing,  he  pointed  to  me, 
and  said,  "  Why,  if  that  dear  boy  and  I  were  on  opposite 
sides  in  a  revolution,  do  you  think  he  would  not  be  ustified 
in  striking  me  down  if  he  could,  and  I  in  striking  at  him  1 " 

I  was  against  the  proposition,  deferentially  observing  that 
I,  taking  part  in  a  revolution,  might  be  on  the  wrong  side, 
even  whde  it  was  my  firm  conviction  that  I  was  on  the  right 
side.  To  strike  a  father  was,  beyond  all  doubt,  wrong  and 
wicked ;  whereas  opinions  were  not  infallible  moral  laws. 
To  honour  a  father  is  undoubtedly  a  solemn  duty — a  duty 
beyond  every  political  opinion  whatsoever. 

Well,  in  the  third  week  in  May,  1857,  Douglas  Jen-old 
was  still  at  his  post — editor  of  Lloyd's  Newspaper — speaking 
to  182,000  subscribers.*  His  notes  for  the  ensuing  week, 
written  in  his  neat  hand  upon  a  transparent  plate,  are  here 
sad  relics  to  us,  who  knew  and  loved  him. 

*  Swollen  now  to  500,000! 

Q  2 


223  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

And  in  parting  from  this  division  of  my  imperfect  record, 
and  the  more  important  division,  to  treat  of  Douglas  Jen-old 
the  man,  let  me  add  that  in  the  last  undertaking  in  which 
he  was  engaged,  he  found  unmixed  pleasure.  He  spoke  of 
Mr.  Lloyd,  on  his  deathbed,  with  the  utmost  tenderness,  and* 
begged  to  be  most  heartily  remembered  to  him.  I  carried 
my  dying  father's  words  to  the  ears  for  which  they  were  in- 
tended, and  I  now  set  them  down  in  the  last  page  of  my 
father's  literary  life,  for  they  command  a  place  here,  being 
part  of  the  man  from  whom  they  came. 


CHAPTER  XI, 

DOUGLAS    JERROLD    IN    PUBLIC. 

It  was  often  a  regret  with  the  subject  of  this  life,  that 

while  young  he  had  not   been  called  to  the  bar.     But  he 

would  have  made  no   figure   in  court.     His  physique  would 

have  betrayed  him  ;  the  drudgery  would  have  repelled  him  ; 

and  his  nervousness  in  public  would  have  been  against  him. 

His  life  was  marred  by  the  incessant  wear  of  a  painful  disease. 

He  often  wrote  while   the  movement  of  his  pen  was  fierce 

pain  to  him.     He  dictated  humorous  articles  while  writhing 

in  agony  ;  he  worked  at  his  webs  of  quaint  ideas  when,  in  a 

dark  room,  he  passed  six  weeks  waiting  for  his  sight.     But 

though  the  spirit  would  have  been  strong  to  battle  against 

these  ills,  he   could  not   have  commanded   the  body.     He 

wrote  for  Punch  at  the  Malvern  water-cure,  whither  he  had 

been   carried,  motionless  with  rheumatism.     He  penned  "  A 

Day    at    the    Heculvers,"    and    some   of    the    "  Clovernook 

Chronicles,"  while  his  old  enemy  gnawed  at  his  bones,  and 

just  before  he  was  carried   in  an   arm-chair  on  board   the 

Heme  Bay  boat,  bound  for  London.     His  spirit  seemed   to 

shine  the  clearer  through  the  ills  of  his  flesh.     But  an  active 

life  would  have  over-taxed  his  feeble  body :  an  over-sensitive 

nature  would  have  kept  him  in  the  background  in  a  court  of 

law.     No;  he  fulfilled  the  mission  for  which  he  was  ordained 

by  nature,  and  laid  his  noble  head  upon  his  pillow,  the  work 

at  an  end,  tranquil  in  conscience — after  a  hard  fight  of  forty 

years  out  of  fifty-four— as  a  child.     He  a  barrister  !     Why, 


230  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

even  latterly  the  thought  of  making  a  public  speech  un- 
nerved him.  "  Is  your  modesty  really  a  confirmed  habit," 
Mr.  Dickens  wrote  to  him  in  1844,  "  or  could  you  prevail 
upon  yourself,  if  you  are  moderately  well,  to  let  me  call  you 
up  for  a  word  or  two  at  the  Sanatorium  Dinner  1  There  are 
some  men  (excellent  men)  connected  with  that  institution, 
who  would  take  the  very  strongest  interest  in  your  doing  so  ; 
and  do  advise  me,  one  of  these  odd  days,  that  if  I  can  do  it 
well  and  unaffectedly,  I  may." 

Nervously  enough,  in  the  following  year,  Douglas  Jerrold 
accepted  a  public  invitation  to  Birmingham,  to  preside  at 
the  annual  Conversazione  of  the  Polytechnic  Institution,  in 
that  city.  Mr.  Dickens  had  presided  on  the  previous  occa- 
sion. It  was  on  the  7th  of  May,  1845 — ("45,  as  I  have 
already  said,  was  the  most  active  year  of  the  author's  life) — 
that  he  took  the  chair.  But  just  as  he  was  moving  towards 
the  hall,  the  "  operatives  in  the  fancy  trade "  in  the  town 
stopped  him,  and,  drawing  out  an  illuminated  address,  pre- 
pared in  Mr.  Gillott's  establishment,  read  it  to  him,  present- 
ing to  him,  at  the  same  time,  a  gold  ring  with  an  onyx 
shield.  The  recipient,  so  deeply  touched  by  any  mark  of 
kindness — he  who  could  fight  against  neglect  or  wrongful 
censure  with  keener  weapons  and  a  stouter  heart  than  most 
men — he,  whose  mind  was  armed  cap-a-pie  against  any 
enemy,  felt  his  lance  tremble  in  his  hand,  and  his  heart 
move  and  swell  to  his  throat,  as  the  head  of  the  deputation 
said  : — 

"Dear  Sir, 

"  Representing  as  we  do  the  operatives  engaged  in  the 
Birmingham  fancy  trades,  we  take  the  opportunity  of  your  visit 
to  Birminghani  to  express  to  you  our  admiration  of  3-our  charac- 
ter and  writings,  embodying  as  they  do  sentiments  of  justice, 
exposure  of  tyranny,  and  defence  of  that  class  to  which  we  our- 
selves belong  :  expressed,  too,  in  that  extraordinary  style  of 
satire,  pathos,  and  truth,  to  which  no  other  writer  has  ever  yet 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD   IN  PUBLIC.  231 

approached.  We  beg  to  offer,  as  a  mark  of  our  esteem,  a  humble 
tribute  to  your  worth,  the  intrinsic  value  of  which,  though  small, 
we  have  no  doubt  will  be  accepted  with  the  same  feelings  that 
it  is  offered ;  namely,  those  of  kindness  and  affection,  proving 
that  the  working  men  can  feel  kind  and  grateful  to  the  kind  and 
talented  advocate  of  their  often  miserable  position ;  and,  owing 
to  the  progress  of  education  thereby,  giving  to  them  the  means 
of  reading  works  like  your  own,  they  are  enabled  to  appreciate 
the  kindness  of  one  that  has  so  long  and  so  ably  contended  for 
their  welfare. 

"  That  you  may  long  enjoy  health,  happiness,  and  prosperity, 
is  the  piayer  of  ourselves  and  those  we  represent. 

"  S.  F.  NlCKLIN. 

"  Joseph  Stinton. 
"  James  Woolley. 
"  Charles  Palmeb. 
"Birmingham,  May  7th,  1845." 

This  was  the  first  public  honour  Douglas  Jerrold  had 
received  ;  and  he  was  overwhelmed  by  it.  A  worldly  man 
would  have  taken  it  with  a  proper,  regulated,  conventional 
warmth ;  but  he  bore  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  and  there 
it  was.  His  mouth  worked  convulsively ;  but  suddenly  a 
few  fiery  words  came,  and  you  could  almost  see  the  heart 
upon  the  lip.  He  told  them  (the  deputation)  this  was  the 
first  public  tribute  he  had  received  ;  and  so  highly  was 
it  prized  by  him,  that  however  fortune — "  the  blind  god- 
dess"— might  smile  upon  him  in  after-time,  the  present 
made  to  him  by  the  people  of  Birmingham  would  be  more 
dearly  valued  than  any  other  he  might  receive.  He  then 
entered  the  hall,  nervous,  overpowered.  "  In  Douglas  Jer- 
rold," says  the  report  of  that  evening,  "there  is  the  plain 
simplicity  of  a  child,  with  all  the  mental  reserve  of  careful 
thought.  As  he  rose  to  speak  he  was  timid  and  over- 
powered; not  from  any  feeling  of  vainglory — for  beseems 
far  above  any  such  feeling — but  from  the  force  of  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  a  burst  of  public  kindness  and  heartfelt 


232  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

appreciation  of  his  good  deeds — his  talented  and  benevolent 
actions — for  which,  on  his  first  public  appearance  before  such 
a  company,  he  was  not  at  all  prepared."  Sentences  and 
epithets  are  confused  here,  perhaps;  but  you  see  the  mean- 
ing struggling  through  the  tangled  words.  Then  rising — his 
heart  beating  quick— amid  the  dense  throng  of  people,  his 
first  public  words  trembled  from  his  lips.     He  said  : — 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,— Already  embarrassed  by  the  novelty 
of  my  position — for  I  am  unskilled  in  the  routine  of  public 
meetings — the  welcome  which  you  have  just  awarded  me  renders 
me  even  less  capable  of  the  duty  which  your  partial  kindness  has 
put  upon  me.  But  I  know — I  feel  that  I  am  among  friends — (hear, 
hear,  and  cheers) — and,  so  knowing,  I  am  assured  in  the  faith 
of  yourindulgence.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  when  I  look  through- 
out this  hall,  thronged  as  it  is  by  the  most  valuable  class  of  the 
community,  I  cannot  but  think  that  the  great,  the  exalted  cause 
which  we  meet  here  to  celebrate  this  evening,  is  strongly  beating 
at  the  hearts  of  the  men  and  women  of  Birmingham.  (Hear, 
hear.)  Happily  the  prejudice  is  gone  by,  with  a  deal  of  the 
lumber  of  those  '  good  old  times '  which  certain  moral  antiquaries 
affect  to  deplore  (the  why  I  know  not,  except,  indeed,  it  is  be- 
cause they  are  old,  just  as  other  antiquaries  affect  to  fall  into 
raptures  with  the  rust  of  the  thumbscrew  or  the  steel  boot, 
although  it  strikes  me  they  would  be  very  loath  to 'live,  even  for 
a  minute,  under  the  activity  of  either)— the  prejudice  is  happily 
gone  by  which  made  it  necessary  to  advocate  the  usefulness  of 
institutions  for  the  education  of  the  masses.  (Cheers.)  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen,  this  is  my  first  essay  in  public,  and  I  feel  so 
overcome,  not  only  with  your  welcome  here  now,  but  with  the 
welcome  I  have  previously  received,  that  I  really  feel  quite  un- 
nerved and  unable  to  proceed.  I  am  sorry,  most  sorry,  that  it 
should  have  fallen  to  your  lot  to  have  experienced  the  first  of  my 
deficiencies ;  but  so  it  is  ;  I  cannot  help  it.  So  far  as  I  have  gone 
I  thank  you  for  listening  to  me ;  but  I  assure  you  at  the  present 
time  I  am  quite  unable  to  proceed  any  further."  (Mr.  Jerrold 
eat  down  amidst  loud  cheers.) 

Overpowered,  he  could  say  no  more.  The  mayor  rose,  and 
alluded  to  him  as  "  the  literary  advocate  of  the  oppressed,'' 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  IN  PUBLIC.  233 

and  the  "  scourger  of  the  oppressor,"  amid  loud  cheers.  A 
reverend  gentleman  pointed  to  him  as  one  who  had  known 
how  to  mix  wisdom  with  pleasure — reason  with  mirth — 
whose  excellent  lessons  lost  none  of  their  force  because  his 
readers  smiled  while  they  leaimed.  Then  said  a  speaker, 
"  Time  Works  Wonders."  (Loud  applause.)  Then  again, 
"  Here  is  a  maker  of  books,  who,  from  his  quiet  closet,  has 
spoken  to  the  multitudes — has  been  understood  and  appre- 
ciated by  them — and  is  now  receiving  at  their  hands  that 
hearty  welcome,  that  loud  acclamation,  which  is  due  to  his 
presence  and  his  labours."  Then  again — a  crowning  em- 
barrassment— Mr.  Richard  Spooner,  M.P.,  turning  to  the 
trembling  chairman,  said,  "And  now,  sir,  let  me  address 
a  few  words  to  you  :  be  of  good  cheer  and  speak— there  are 
no  Mrs.  Caudles  in  Birmingham."  (Loud  laughter  and 
cheers.)  No  ;  the  crowning  difficulty  was  heaped  upon  the 
unhappy  chairman's  head  when  the  Rev.  George  Dawson 
bade  him  try  to  speak  again,  and  give  the  meeting  at  once 
a  new  number  of  Punch  I 

Then  the  chairman  rose  excitedly,  and  ended  the  matter 
(it  was  too  much  for  him),  saying  : — 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, — If  before  I  suddenly  felt  myself 
unable  to  give  expression  to  my  thoughts,  how  can  I  now  be 
expected  to  remedy  that  defect,  absolutely  oppressed  as  I  am  by 
a  sense  of  the  unworthiness  of  the  encomiums  which  have  been 
heaped  upon  me  ?  I  cannot— I  will  not  attempt  to  do  it.  But 
here  standing,  with  all  my  deficiencies  upon  my  head,  I  feel  most 
strongly  that  the  time  will  come — shall  come  (hear,  hear),  if  I 
know  anything  of  myself — when  I  will  prove  myself  more 
worthy  of  the  tolerance  I  have  received  at  your  hands.  (Loud 
cheers.)  Some  mention  has  been  made  of  a  certain  periodical 
with  which  I  am  unworthily  connected  (cheers),  and  it  is  really 
out  of  justice  to  others  that  I  ought  for  some  moments  to  con- 
sider that  topic.  It  is  the  good  fortune  of  every  one — good 
fortune  I  will  not  say — it  is,  however,  the  fortune  of  every  one 
connected  with  that  periodical  to  receive,  at  times,  a  great  deal 
more  praise  than  what  is  justly  his  due.     I  am  in  that  prodica- 


234  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

merit  this  evening.  I  could  wish  that  two  or  three  of  my  coad- 
jutors were  here  (cheers),  that  the  praise  which  is  so  liberally 
bestowed  on  that  work  might  be  shared  among  them.  Mrs. 
Caudle !  (Loud  cheers.)  Your  honourable  member  has  said  he 
does  not  believe  there  is  a  Mrs.  Caudle  in  all  Birmingham. 
(Laughter.)  I  will  even  venture  to  go  further  than  he  :  I  do  not 
think  there  is  a  Mrs.  Caudle  in  the  whole  world.  I  really  think 
the  whole  matter  is  a  fiction — a  wicked  fiction,  intended  merely 
to  throw  into  finer  contrast  the  trustingness,  the  beauty,  the 
confidence,  and  the  taciturnity  of  the  sex.  (Applause.)  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen,  I  most  respectfully  thank  you  again  for  the 
tolerance  with  which  you  have  borne  me.  I  can  only  again  repeat 
the  conviction,  that  the  time  will  come  when  I  shall  be  more  able 
to  give  expression  to  my  gratitude — to  my  sense  of  your  kindness 
— than  I  feel  myself  now  enabled  to  do."     (Great  applause.) 

The  chairman  returned,  mortified,  to  London. 

In  the  following  year  Manchester  claimed  him  for  a  pre- 
sident ;  and  here  he  gathered  courage,  and  made  a  highly 
successful  speech.  But  the  effort  was  great :  the  nervous- 
ness remained  with  him.  From  his  visit  to  Manchester 
sprang  his  idea — developed  in  his  own  journal  by  Mr.  Angus 
B.  Reach — of  the  Whittington  Club.  Earnest  young  men 
took  up  the  idea,  and  on  the  29th  of  February,  1847,  a  soiree 
to  celebrate  the  opening  of  the  club  was  held. 

This  was  an  institution  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  own  creating  : 
he  felt  strongly  in  its  favour.  Called  to  the  chair  before  a 
dense  audience  of  friends,  he  nerved  himself  to  utter  that 
which  was  within  him.  This,  and  another  speech  to  be 
presently  referred  to,  are  the  only  utterances  of  any  length 
ever  made  by  my  father  before  an  English  public.  To  the 
friends  of  the  Whittington  Club  he  said  : — 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen, — The  post  of  danger,  it  has  been 
said,  is  the  post  of  honour.  I  was  never  more  alive  to  the  truth 
of  the  saying  than  at  the  present  moment.  For  whilst,  from  a 
consciousness  of  inability  duly  to  perform  the  duty  to  which  you 
have  called  me,  I  feel  my  danger,  I  must,  nevertheless,  acknow- 
ledge the  honour  even  of  the  post  itself.     But  it  is  the  spirit  of 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  IN  PUBLIC.  235 

hope  that  has  called  us  together  on  the  present  most  interesting 
occasion,  and  in  that  spirit  I  will  endeavour  to  perform  the  task, 
not  rendered  particularly  facile  to  mo  by  frequent  practice.  It 
is  my  duty,  then,  as  briefly  as  I  may,  to  dwell  upon  the  purpose 
that  brings  us  together  this  evening,  and,  as  simply  as  Lies 
within  my  power,  to  explain  the  various  objects  of  our  young 
institution — the  infant  Whittington.  And  even  now  it  must  be 
considered  a  most  promising  child — a  child  that  has  already  got 
upon  its  feet ;  and  though  not  yet  eight  months  old — not  eight 
months,  ladies — is  even  now  insisting  on  running  alone.  But, 
gentlemen,  while  you  rejoice  at  the  energy  of  this  very  forward 
child,  I  beseech  you  to  have  a  proper  humility,  as  becomes  our 
sex  in  all  such  cases,  and  take  none  of  the  credit  to  yourselves. 
Indeed,  no  man  can  have  the  face  to  do  so,  looking  at  the  fair 
faces  before  him ;  for  therein  he  cannot  but  acknowledge  the 
countenance  that  has  made  the  institution  what  it  really  is.  The 
growing  spirit  of  our  day  is  the  associative  spirit.  Men  have 
gradually  recognised  the  great  social  truth,  vital  in  the  old  fable 
of  the  bundle  of  sticks ;  and  have  begun  to  make  out  of  what 
would  otherwise  be  individual  weakness,  combined  strength ; 
and  so  small  sticks,  binding  themselves  together,  obtain  at  once 
the  strength  of  clubs.  Now,  we  purpose,  nay,  we  have  carried 
out  such  a  combination,  with  this  happy  difference — that  whereas 
such  clubs  have  hitherto  been  composed  of  sticks  of  husbands 
and  single  sticks  alone — we,  for  the  first  time,  intend  to  grace 
them  with  those  human  flowers  that  give  to  human  life  its  best 
worth  and  sweetness.  *  *  *  It  has  really  been  inferred  that 
the  social  advantages  contemplated  by  our  institution  would  be 
vulgarised  by  being  made  cheap.  These  pensive  prophets  seem 
to  consider  the  refinements  of  life  to  be  like  the  diamond — rarity 
making  their  only  worth  ;  and  with  these  people,  multiply  the 
diamonds  ten  thousandfold;  and  for  such  reason,  with  them, 
they  would  no  longer  be  considered  fit  even  for  a  gentleman. 
These  folks  have  only  sympathies  with  the  past.  They  love  to 
contemplate  tho  world  with  their  heads  over  their  shoulders, 
turned  as  far  backward  as  anatomy  will  permit  to  them  that 
surpassing  luxury.  Nevertheless,  there  is  a  tenderness  at  times, 
in  the  rogret  of  these  folks,  for  vestod  intorests — a  tondernesa 
that  makes  it  touching.  Tell  them,  for  instance,  that  this  City 
of  London  is  about  to  be  veined  with  tho  electric  tolograph ; 
that  wires  vibrating  with  the  pulse  of  human  thought  are  about 


23G  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD, 

to  bo  made  messengers  'twixt  man  and  man,  and  these  people) 
'  beating  their  pensive  bosoms,'  will  say,  '  Yes,  it's  all  very  well 
— with  these  whispering  wires — this  electric  telegraph ;  but  if 
wires  are  to  run  upon  messages,  what — what's  to  become  of  the 
vested  interests  of  the  ticket  porters  P"  *  *  *  There  was  a 
time,  indeed,  when  lectures  addressed  to  the  popular  mind  were 
condemned  as  only  ministering  to  popular  dissatisfaction.  The 
lecturer  was  looked  upon  as  a  meek  Guy  Fawkes  dressed  for  an 
evening  party ;  and  his  lectures,  like  Acre's  letter,  were  pro- 
nounced '  to  smell  woundily  of  gunpowder.'  This  is  past. 
Literature,  science,  and  art  are  now  open  sources ;  the  padlocks 
are  taken  from  the  wells — come  and  drink  ! 

"  May  the  spirit  of  Whittington  wait  on  the  good  work  !  Yet, 
of  Whittington,  our  patron — as  I  think  we  may  venture  to  call 
him — how  little  do  we  truly  know,  and  yet  how  much  in  that 
Little  !  We  see  him,  the  child  hero  of  our  infancy,  on  Highgate 
stone — the  orphan  buffeted  by  the  cruelty  of  the  world — cruelty 
that  is  ever  three  parts  ignorance — homeless,  friendless,  hopeless. 
He  is  then,  in  his  little  self,  one  of  the  saddest  sights  of  earth — 
an  orphan  only  looked  upon  by  misery  !  And  the  legend  tells 
us — and  I  am  sure  that  there  are  none  of  ns  here  who,  if  we  could, 
would  disbelieve  it — the  legend  tells  us  that  suddenly  Bow  bells 
l'ang  out  from  London — from  London,  that  stony-hearted  mis- 
tress, that,  with  threats  and  stripes,  had  sent  the  little  wanderer 
forth.  And  voices  floating  from  the  far-off  steeple — floating 
over  field  and  meadow — sang  to  the  Little  outcast  boy  a  song  of 
hope.  Childish  fancy  dreamt  the  words,  but  hope  supplied  the 
music,  '  Turn  again,  Whittington,  thrice  Lord  Mayor  of  Lon- 
don ! '  And  the  little  hero  rose  and  retraced  his  steps,  with 
new  strength  and  hope,  mysterious,  in  his  little  breast — returned 
to  the  city — drudged  and  drudged — and  we  know  the  golden  end. 
In  due  time  Bow  bells  were  truest  prophets.  Such  is  the  legend 
that  delights  us  in  childhood ;  but  as  we  grow  to  maturity  we  see 
in  the  story  something  more  than  a  tale.  Yes,  we  recognise,  iu 
the  career  of  Richard  Whittington,  that  Saxon  energy  which  has 
made  the  City  of  London  what  it  is ;  we  see  and  feel  in  it  that 
commercial  glory  that  wins  the  noblest  conquests  for  the  family 
of  man ;  for  the  victories  are  bloodless.  And  therefore  am  I 
truly  glad  that  our  club  carries  the  name — that  when  the  idea  of 
this  institution  rose  in  my  mind,  rose  instantly  with  it — the 
name  of  Whittington. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  IN  PUBLIC.  237 

Passing  over  minor  occasions  when  a  few  words  were  said 
in  public,  I  come  to  the  last  subject  on  which  Douglas 
Jerrold  seriously  addressed  himself  to  an  English  audience. 

I  have  already  inferred  that  Louis  Kossuth  was  a  great 
hero  in  Circus  Road,  St.  John's  "Wood.  A  peculiar  link  of 
sympathy  held  the  devout  student  of  Shakspeare  to  the  ex- 
governor  of  Hungary.  Kossuth,  by  the  magic  page  of  the 
bard  of  Avon,  learned  his  remarkable  mastery  of  the  English 
language.  On  the  17th  of  November,  the  idea  having  just 
struck  him,  Douglas  Jerrold  wrote  to  the  editor  of  the  Daily 
News  the  following  letter  ; — 

"  Sir, 

"  It  is  written  in  the  brief  history  made  known  to  us  of 
Kossuth,  that,  in  an  Austrian  prison,  he  was  taught  English  by 
the  words  of  the  teacher,  Shakspeare.  An  Englishman's  blood 
glows  with  the  thought  that,  from  the  quiver  of  the  immortal 
Saxon,  Kossuth  has  furnished  himself  with  those  arrowy  words 
that  kindle  as  they  fly — words  that  are  weapons,  as  Austria  will 
know.  Would  it  not  be  a  graceful  tribute  to  the  genius  of  the 
man  who  has  stirred  our  nation's  heart  to  present  to  him  a  copy 
of  Shakspeare  ?  To  do  this,  I  would  propose  a  penny  subscrip- 
tion. The  large  amount  of  money  obtained  by  these  means,  the 
cost  of  the  work  itself  being  small,  might  be  expended  on  the 
binding  of  the  volumes,  and  on  a  casket  to  contain  them.  There 
are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Englishmen  who  would  rejoice 
thus  to  endeavour  to  manifest  their  gratitude  to  Kossuth,  for  the 
glorious  words  he  has  uttered  among  us — words  that  have  been 
as  pulses  to  the  nation,  &c. 

"  Douglas  Jerrold." 

This  idea  was  caught  up  at  once,  and  the  author  of  it 
went  enthusiastically  through  all  the  trouble  of  collecting  the 
people's  pence.  Months  were  spent,  but  the  money  came  in. 
And  the  volumes  were  bought,  and  sent  to  be  bound.  Then 
for  the  casket,  for  there  was  yet  money  to  spare.  Another 
idea  !  It  should  be  a  model  of  Shakspcare's  house,  in  inlaid 
woods,  all  beautifully  worked.     The  casket  was  accordingly 


258  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

made,  and  a  meeting  was  called  for  the  8th  of  May,  1853,  to 
present  the  gift  of  the  nation  to  Kossuth, 

I  remember  well  the  proud  evening  on  which  my  father, 
having  a  small  party  about  him,  bore  the  beautiful  model 
with  the  richly  bound  books,  into  his  study,  and  showed  it  to 
his  friends.  Again  and  again  he  opened  it ;  again  and  again 
dwelt  upon  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  pence  had  been 
subscribed.  But  on  the  public  evening,  at  the  London 
Tavern,  when  one  of  the  largest  meetings  ever  gathered 
within  even  that  spacious  establishment,  filled  every  cranny 
of  the  great  hall,  and  when  good-natured,  well-intentioned 
Lord  Dudley  Stuart  had  spoken,  I  remember  very  vividly 
my  father's  excited  manner  when  he  was  perched  upon  a 
chair,  amid  a  storm  of  applause,  his  hair  flowing  wildly  about 
him,  his  eyes  starting,  and  his  arms  moving  spasmodically. 
He  bowed  and  bowed,  almost  entreatingly,  as  though  he 
begged  the  audience  not  to  overwhelm  his  powers  as  they 
had  been  overwhelmed  seven  years  before  in  Birmingham. 
By  slow  degrees  the  applause,  taking  now  and  then  a  new 
vigour  as  it  subsided,  died  away.  And  it  was  then  that, 
gathering  all  his  strength — this  time  determined  not  to  be 
beaten  by  physical  nervousness — in  a  sharp,  clear  voice  the 
gatherer  of  the  nation's  pence  to  Kossuth,  gave  an  eloquent 
account  of  his  stewardship. 

Then  the  casket  was  presented  to  Kossuth.  Kossuth 
accepted  it  in  a  long  and  wondrous  speech,  and  the  cheers  of 
the  people  travelled  the  length  of  Bishopsgate  Street  as  he 
bore  the  magic  volumes  away  with  him. 

To  him,  a  great  occasion  had  called  Douglas  Jerrold  from 
his  study.  He  returned  to  it,  never  wishing  to  appear  again 
upon  the  platform.  In  this  year,  indeed,  he  had  been 
invited  to  stand  for  Finsbury  ;  but  he  said  that  the  activity, 
the  slavery  of  a  member's  duties,  were  incompatible  with  his 
own,  and  he  would  not  be  dazzled  by  the  honour.  No ; 
amid   friends    he  could  talk    and   make  whimsical,    telling 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD   IN   PUBLIC.  239 

speeches  enough,  but  not  under  the  reporters'  eyes.  Mr. 
Dickens  urged  him,  in  1856,  to  take  the  chair  at  the  General 
Theatrical  Fund  Dinner,  but  he  declined  :  the  disturbance 
of  mind  which  these  public  displays  cost  him  made  them 
repulsive  to  him.  No  ;  he  would  remain  among  his  friends, 
and  write,  when  he  had  anything  to  say  to  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DOUGLAS   JERROLD    AT    HOME. 

"  Let  me  see  a  man  at  home,"  says  the  philosopher  whc 
wishes  to  know  his  subject  d,  fond.  Unquestionably,  meu 
may  be  studied  advantageously  in  their  dressing-gowns  and 
slippers.  When  the  cloak,  fashioned  to  give  a  decent  exterior 
to  the  world,  is  cast  aside — when  a  man  acts  forgetful  of  his 
looking-glass  and  his  critic — this  is  the  time,  if  you  want  to 
know  something  of  the  heart  behind  its  mask  of  daily  public 
professions,  when  you  must  approach,  and  watch,  and  take 
notes. 

I  have  endeavoured  already,  to  set  before  the  reader  a 
methodical  and  candid  report  of  the  intellectual  activity  of 
Douglas  Jerrold,  from  the  time  of  his  birth  to  the  day  when 
he  put  aside  the  pen  for  ever.  I  have  shown  the  writer  as 
he  expressed  himself  to  the  world ;  but  I  hold  that  the 
world  has  a  right  to  learn  something  more  about  one  to 
whom  a  great  reputation  was  accorded,  and  whose  words  are 
likely  to  live  long  in  the  minds  of  his  fellow-countrymen. 
It  is  useful  to  know  whether  the  greatly  professing  man 
before  the  world — the  knight  of  the  keen  and  well-poised 
lance,  who  tilted  at  the  social  meannesses  and  political  dis- 
honesty of  his  hour — retired  from  the  fight  to  rest  himself — 
was  still  the  simple  champion,  regulating  his  own  little 
petty  suburban  dominion  on  the  high  principles  which  he 
laid  down  for  the  acceptance  of  his  erring  fellow-country- 
men.    Be  certain,   if  the  public   purist  present   a  picture 


DOUGLAS  JERIiOLD  AT  HOME.  241 

of  laxity  at  his  own  fireside,  his  genius  is  not  of  the 
right  ring  after  all.  Look  to  him  narrowly,  and  be  cautious 
how  you  range  yourself  under  his  colours.  Good  precept 
and  evil  practice  have  been  found  in  the  preacher  often, 
it  is  true,  but  not  in  the  true,  bold,  and  speculative  re- 
former. The  writer  who  should  speak  strongly  against  the 
habit  we  have,  of  putting  upon  our  servants  the  badge  of 
servitude,  and  at  home  should  be  served  with  a  man  in 
gorgeous  livery,  would  deserve  that  his  countrymen  should 
suspect  the  sincerity  of  his  opinions  on  all  questions.  No 
man  has  ever  lived  up  to  his  aspirations ;  no  writer  has 
passed  the  life  he  has  painted  to  himself  as  the  pure  and 
good  life.  For  a  man  writes  his  aspirations,  and  lives  in  the 
midst  of  temptations  and  obstacles  that  blur  and  thwart 
them.  But  the  world,  when  a  great  man  dies,  has  a  right 
to  inquire  whether  he  endeavoured  constantly  to  shape  his 
course  somewhat  in  the  direction  to  which  he  would  have 
led  the  footsteps  of  his  readers.  The  world  is  justified  in 
knowing  whether  the  opinions  a  writer  set  forth  in  print 
were  his  intimate  convictions,  or  were  arranged,  in  inde- 
pendence of  conviction,  to  suit  the  passing  taste  of  the 
market.  For  there  is  more  value  in  the  lightest  paragraph  of 
a  sincere  man,  than  in  long  pages,  traced,  as  calico  patterns 
are  traced,  to  suit  the  whim  of  the  Hindoo  or  the  negro. 

Xow,  it  has  been  said  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  by  all  his 
friends  who  have  written  about  him,  that  he  was  a  man  who 
wore  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve.  In  no  way,  whether  in 
company  or  alone,  could  you  detect  the  great  man,  who 
made  you  conscious  that  you  were  in  the  presence  of  a 
gentleman  whose  name  was  a  "  household  word."  But  when 
he  was  alone  with  his  wife  and  children — when  even  the 
intimate  friend  was  gone,  and  the  world  had  no  word  to  say 
to  him  or  of  him — what  was  he  1  Let  the  reader  watch  him 
through  the  day. 

it    is   a    bright    morning,    about    eight  o'clock,   at    West 


R 


242  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Lodge,  Putney  Lower  Common.  The  windows  at  the  side 
of  the  old  house,  buried  in  trees,  afford  glimpses  of  a  broad 
common,  tufted  with  purple  heather  and  yellow  gorse. 
Gipsies  are  encamped  where  the  blue  smoke  curls  amid  the 
elms.  A  window-sash  is  shot  sharply  up.  A  clear,  small 
voice  is  heard  singing  within.  And  now  a  long  roulade, 
whistled  softly,  floats  out.  A  little,  spare  figure,  with  a 
stoop,  habited  in  a  short  shooting  jacket,  the  throat  quite 
open,  without  collar  or  kerchief,  and  crowned  with  a  straw 
hat,  pushes  through  the  gate  of  the  cottage,  and  goes,  with 
short,  quick  steps,  assisted  by  a  stout  stick,  over  the 
common.  A  little  black  and  tan  terrier  follows,  and  rolls 
over  the  grass  at  intervals,  as  a  response  to  a  cheery  word 
from  its  master.  The  gipsy  encampment  is  reached.  The 
gipsies  know  their  friend,  and  a  chat  and  a  laugh  ensue. 
Then  a  deep  gulp  of  the  sweet  morning  air,  a  dozen  branches 
pulled  to  the  nose  here  and  there  in  the  garden,  the  children 
kissed,  and  breakfast,  and  the  morning  papers. 

The  breakfast  is  a  jug  of  cold  new  milk  ;  some  toast, 
bacon,  water-cresses.  Perhaps  a  few  strawberries  have  been 
found  in  the  garden.  A  long  examination  of  the  papers — 
here  and  there  a  bit  of  news  energetically  read  aloud,  then 
cut,  and  put  between  clippers.  Then  silently,  suddenly,  into 
the  study. 

This  study  is  a  very  snug  room.  All  about  it  are  books. 
Crowning  the  shelves  are  Milton  and  Shakspeare.  A  bit 
of  Shakspeare's  mulberry  tree  lies  upon  the  mantel-piece. 
Above  the  sofa  are  "  The  Rent  Day  "  and  "  Distraining  for 
Rent,"  Wilkie's  two  pictures,  in  the  corner  of  which  is 
Wilkie's  kind  inscription  to  the  author  of  the  drama,  called 
The  Rent  Day.  Under  the  two  prints  laughs  Sir  Joshua's 
sly  Puck,  perched  upon  a  pulpy  mushroom.  Turner's 
"  Heidelberg "  is  here  too,  and  the  engraver  thereof  will 
drop  in  presently — he  lives  close  at  hand — to  see  his  friend 
Douglas    Jerrold.       Ariadne    and    Dorothea    decorate    the 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.  243 

chimney-piece.  The  furniture  is  simple,  solid  oak.  The 
desk  has  not  a  speck  upon  it.  The  marble  shell,  upon 
which  the  inkstand  rests,  has  no  litter  in  it.  Various  notes 
lie  in  a  row,  between  clips,  on  the  table.  The  paper  basket 
stands  near  the  arm-chair,  prepared  for  answered  letters  and 
rejected  contributions.  The  little  dog  follows  his  master 
into  his  study,  and  lies  at  his  feet. 

Work  begins.  If  it  be  a  comedy,  the  author  will  now 
and  then  walk  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room,  talking  wildly 
to  himself;  if  it  be  Punch  copy,  you  shall  hear  him  laugh 
presently  as  he  hits  upon  a  droll  bit.  Suddenly  the  pen  will 
be  put  down,  and  through  a  little  conservatory,  without  see- 
ing anybody,  the  author  will  pass  out  into  the  garden,  where 
he  will  talk  to  the  gardener,  or  watch,  chuckling  the  while, 
the  careful  steps  of  the  little  terrier  amid  the  gooseberry 
bushes  ;  or  pluck  a  hawthorn  leaf,  and  go  nibbling  it,  and 
thinking,  down  the  side  walks. 

In  again,  and  vehemently  to  work.  The  thought  has 
come  ;  and,  in  letters  smaller  than  the  type  in  which  they 
shall  presently  be  set,  it  is  unrolled  along  the  little  blue 
slips  of  paper.  A  simple  crust  of  bread  and  a  glass  of  wine, 
are  brought  in  by  a  dear  female  hand  ;  but  no  word  is 
spoken,  aud  the  hand  and  dear  heart  disappear.  The  work 
goes  rapidly  forward,  and  halts  at  last  suddenly.  The  pen  is 
dashed  aside  ;  a  few  letters,  seldom  more  than  three  lines  in 
each,  are  written,  and  despatched  to  the  post ;  and  then 
again  into  the  garden.  The  fowls  and  pigeons  are  noticed  ; 
a  visit  is  paid  to  the  horse  and  cow  ;  then  another  long  turn 
ri  mnd  the  lawn ;  at  last  a  seat,  with  a  quaint  old  volume,  in 
the  tent,  under  the  umbrageous  mulberry  tree. 

Friends  drop  in,  and  join  Jerrold  in  his  tent.  Who  will 
stop  to  dinner  1  Only  cottage  fare  ;  but  there  is  a  hearty 
welcome.  Conversation  about  the  book  in  hand.  Perhaps 
it  is  old  Rabelais,  or  Jeremy  Taylor  ;  not  improbably  Jean 
Paul's  "  Flower  Fruit  and  Thorn  Pieces,"  or  his  "  Levana ; " 

r  2 


24+  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

or,  again,  one  of  old  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  volumes.  In  any 
there  is  ample  matter  for  animated  gossip.  At  a  hint  the 
host  is  up,  and  on  his  way  to  discover  to  his  visitor  the 
beauties  and  conveniences  of  his  cottage.  The  mulberry  tree 
especially  always  comes  in  for  a  glowing  account  of  its  rich  fruit- 
fulness;  and  the  asparagus  bed  owes  a  heavy  debt  of  grati- 
tude to  its  master.  The  guest  may  be  a  phlegmatic  person, 
and  may  wearily  follow  his  excited  host,  as  he  wanders  enthu- 
siastically from  one  advantageous  point  to  another  ;  but  the 
host  is  in  downright  earnest  about  his  fruit  trees,  as  he  is 
about  everything  else.  He  laughingly  insists  that  his  cab- 
bages cost  him  at  least  a  shilling  apiece  ;  and  that  cent,  per 
cent,  is  the  loss  on  his  fowls'  eggs.  Still  he  relishes  the 
cabbages  and  the  eggs,  and  the  first  spring  dish  of  asparagus 
from  his  own  garden  marks  a  red-letter  day  to  him.  Perhaps 
he  will  be  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm  as  the  sun  goes 
down,  and  will  be  seen  still  in  his  straw  hat,  watering  the 
geraniums,  or  clearing  the  flies  from  the  roses.  Dinner,  if 
there  be  no  visitors,  will  be  at  four.  In  the  summer,  a 
cold  quarter  of  lamb  and  salad,  and  a  raspberry  tart,  with  a 
little  French  wine  in  the  tent ;  and  a  cigar.  Then  a  short 
nap — forty  winks — upon  the  great  sofa  in  the  study  ;  and 
another  long  stroll  over  the  lawn,  while  the  young  members 
play  bowls,  and  the  tea  is  prepared  in  the  tent.  Over  the 
tea-table,  jokes  of  all  kinds,  as  at  dinner.  No  friend  who 
may  happen  to  drop  in  now,  will  make  any  difference  in  the 
circle.  Perhaps  the  fun  may  be  extended  to  a  game  of  some 
kind,  on  the  lawn.  Basting  the  bear  was,  one  evening,  the 
rule,  on  which  occasion  grave  editors  and  contributors 
"  basted  "  one  another  with  knotted  pocket-handkerchiefs,  to 
their  hearts'  content.  The  crowning  effort  of  this  memorable 
even  inn  was  a  general  attempt  to  go  heels  over  head  upon 
haycocks  in  the  orchard— a  feat  which  vanquished  the  skill  of 
the  laughing  host,  and  left  a  very  stout  and  very  responsible 
editor,  I  remember,  upon  bis  head,  without  power  to  retrieve 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT   HOME.  245 

his  natural  position.  Again  :  after  a  dinner  party  under 
canvas,  the  hearty  host,  with  his  guests,  including  Mr.  Charles 
Dickens,  Mr.  Maclise,  Mr.  Macready,  and  Mr.  John  Forster, 
indulged  in  a  most  active  game  of  leap-frog,  the  backs  being 
requested  to  turn  in  any  obtrusive  "  twopenny  "  with  the  real 
zest  of  fourteen  !  Never  were  boys  more  completely  pos- 
sessed by  the  spirit  of  the  game  in  a  seminary  playground  ; 
and  foremost  among  the  players  and  laughers  was  the  little 
figure  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  his  hair  flowing  wildly,  and  his  face 
radiant  with  pleasure.  He  could  never  dance  a  step,  nor 
master  a  single  figure  of  a  quadrille  :  still,  let  there  be 
dancing  carried  on  in  a  hearty  spirit,  and  you  would  pre- 
sently find  him  borne  away  by  the  gaiety  of  the  scene,  endea- 
vouring to  persuade  a  lady  to  try  a  step  with  him,  and  to 
prevent  his  "  turning  up  in  wrong  places."  Having  fairly 
bewildered  his  partner,  and  vanquished  all  her  efforts  tc 
keep  him  in  his  proper  position,  he  would  at  last  take  hei 
back  to  her  seat,  convulsed  with  laughter  over  his  own 
awkwardness.  In  any  active  grace  he  was  singularly  defi- 
cient. He  could  never  draw  a  straight  line,  nor  play  any 
game  that  required  manual  skill ;  nor  carve  the  plainest 
joint,  nor  ride  a  hor-se,  nor  draw  a  cork.  He  dashed  gallantly 
at  each  accomplishment,  but  gave  it  up  after  a  vehement  but 
futile  effort. 

He  was  the  most  helpless  among  men.  He  never  brushed 
his  hat ;  never  opened  a  drawer  to  find  a  collar  ;  never  knew 
where  he  had  put  his  stick.  Everything  must  be  to  his 
hand.  His  toilet  was  performed  usually  with  his  back  to  the 
glass.  It  mattered  not  to  him  that  his  kerchief  was  awry. 
"  Plain  linen  and  country  washing"  he  used  to  cite  as  con- 
taining all  a  man  need  care  for,  in  the  matter  of  dress.  He 
was,  however,  passionately  fond  of  any  kind  of  new  prepara- 
tion for  shaving — of  any  newly  invented  strop  or  razor.  He 
had  these  things  in  immense  quantities,  and  seldom  tried 
each  more  than  once.     If  a  thing  did  not  succeed  in  the  first 


246  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

trial  it  was  cast  aside  for  ever.  Patent  corkscrews,  coffee- 
pots, match-boxes,  knives,  and  lamps  delighted  him.  If  he 
saw  something  new  he  must  have  it  instantly.  Struck  by  a 
waistcoat  in  a  shop  window,  he  must  go  in,  try  it  on,  and  if  it 
fit  him,  wear  it  on  the  spot,  sending  home  that  in  which  he 
left  his  house.  One  day  he  returned  home  with  an  instru- 
ment shaped  like  a  horse-shoe,  within  the  magic  circle  of  which 
were  hooks  to  take  stones  from  the  equine  hoof,  little  saws, 
a  gimlet,  a  corkscrew,  a  boot-hook,  &c.  And  he  carried  this 
curious  instrument  about  with  him  for  some  time,  highly 
pleased  with  the  skill  the  workman  had  exhibited  in  cram- 
ming so  many  utensils  in  so  confined  a  space.  His  evenings 
at  home,  when  not  devoted  to  writing  (and  in  the  latter  years 
of  his  life  he  seldom  wrote  after  dinner),  were  spent  usually 
alone  in  his  study,  with  some  favourite  author ;  or  throwing 
off  rapid  letters  of  invitation,  acknowledgments  of  invitations, 
or  suggestions  of  service  to  friends,  of  which  I  venture  to 
offer  the  reader  a  few  examples  : — 

"  My  dear  Dickens, 

"  *  *  *  When,  when  we  can  count  upon  a  dry  after- 
noon, won't  you,  and  the  Hidalgo,  and  Mac—,  and  the  ladies 
come  down  here  to  a  cut  of  country  lamb  and  a  game  at  bowls  ? 
Our  turf  is  coming  up  so  velvety,  I  intend  to  have  a  waistcoat 
sliced  from  it,  trimmed  with  daisies. 

"  We  must  have  another  quiet  day  here  between  the  17th  and 
play.  I  find,  on  return,  the  garden  out  very  nice  indeed ;  and  I 
wish  you  could  only  see  (and  eat)  the  dish  of  strawberries  just 
brought  in  for  breakfast  by  my  girl  Polly—'  all,'  as  she  says, 
'  big  and  square  as  pincushions.'" 

"My  dear  Dickens, 

"My  wife  has  brought  two  little  hats  for  two  little  girls 
at  Broadstairs  (we  came  home  last  night),  and  I  am  very  much 
afraid  that  nobody  can  bring  them  to  said  Broadstairs  so  care- 
fully as  the  elegant  penman  who  now  addresses  you.  Therefore, 
I  wonder  if  some  time  next  week — two  or  three  days  ere  you 
return — I  present  myself  with  a  modestly  small  portmanteau,  I 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.  247 

shall  bo  asked  to  sit  down.  At  all  events,  I  have  a  good  half 
mind  to  try.  If  the  Dickens'  Head  be  as  full  as  the  Dickens' 
heart,  there  is,  nevertheless,  an  inn — if  •  memory  holds  her  seat 
in  tins  distracted  globe.'  I  hope  you  are  all  well,  and  brown  as 
satyrs." 

To  Mr.  John  Forster,  on  the  morrow  of  Shakspeare's  birth- 
day : — "  I  hope  you  ate  your  mulberry  yesterday  with  reve- 
rential pleasure."  To  the  same : — "  I  came  from  Chatsworth 
this  morning,  and  it  may  surprise  you  (it  does  me)  to  know 
that  I  have  committed  bloodshed  on  the  moors  !  The  grouse 
will  long  remember — Yours  ever." 


"8 


"My  dear  Dickens, 

"  *     *     *     I  have  received  a  letter  from  "W (he  is 

in  the  Charter-House — so  is  M ).  'Tis  an  admirable  estab- 
lishment.   Booms,  excellent  fare,  and  301.  a  year.  Would  P 

(I  know  he's  an  impracticable  man)  turn  up  his  nose  at  this  ? 
It  could,  I  hear,  be  easily  obtained  for  him  by  making  his  case 
known  to  Prince  Albert,  and  getting  promise  of  next  presenta- 
tion. Vacancies  occur  once  or  twice,  or  more,  in  the  year.  This, 
with  the  additional  annuity  that  would  come  to  him  from  the 
playing,  would  put  him  belly  high  in  clover.  Will  you  think 
of  it?" 

Sometimes,  but  rarely,  he  would  indulge  in  a  long  gossip 
upon  paper.  For  him,  the  following  was  a  huge  epistolary 
effort : — 

"My  dear  Dickens, 

"  Let  me  break  this  long  silence  with  heartiest  con- 
gratulation. Your  book  has  spoken  like  a  trumpet  to  the  nation, 
and  it  is  to  me  a  pleasure  to  believe  that  you  have  faith  in  the 
sincerity  of  my  gladness  at  your  triumph.  You  have  rallied 
your  old  thousands  again ;  and,  what  is  most  delightful,  you 
have  rebuked  and  for  ever  '  put  down '  the  small  things,  half 
knave,  half  fool,  that  love  to  make  the  failure  they  '  feed  on.' 
They  are  under  your  boot — tread  'em  to  paste. 

"  And  how  is  it  that  your  cordial  letter,  inviting  me  to  your 
cordial  home,  has  been  so  long  unanswered;'    Partly  from  hope, 


248  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

partly  from  something  like  shame.  Let  me  write  you  a  brief 
penitential  history.  When  you  left  England  I  had  been  stirred 
to  this  newspaper.*  ('Tis  forwarded  to  you,  and,  I  hope,  arrives.) 
Nevertheless,  the  project  was  scarcely  formed,  and  I  had  not  the 
hast  idea  of  producing  it  before  October — perhaps  not  until 
Christmas.  This  would  have  allowed  me  to  take  my  sunny 
holiday  at  Lausanne.  Circumstances,  however,  too  numerous 
for  this  handbill,  compelled  me  to  precipitate  this  speculation  or 
to  abandon  it.  I  printed  in  July,  yet  still  believed  I  should  be 
able  to  intrust  it  to  sufficient  hands,  long  enough  to  enable  me 
to  spend  a  fortnight  with  you.  And  from  week  to  week  I  hoped 
this — with  fainter  hopes,  but  still  hopes.  At  last  I  found  it  im- 
possible, though  compelled,  by  something  very  like  congestion  of 
the  brain,  to  abscond  for  ten  days'  health  and  idleness.  And  I 
went  to  Jersey,  when,  by  heavens  !  my  heart  was  at  Lausanne. 
But  why  not  then  answer  this  letter  ?  The  question  I  put  to 
myself — God  knows  how  many  times — when  your  missive,  every 
other  day,  in  my  desk,  smote  rny  ungrateful  hand  like  a  thistle. 
And  so  time  went  on,  and  '  Dombey'  comes  out,  and  now,  to  be 
sure,  I  write.  Had  '  Dombey '  fallen  apoplectic  from  the  steam- 
press  of  Messrs.  B and  E ,  of  course  your  letter  would 

still  have  remained  unanswered.  But,  with  all  England  shouting 
'  Viva  Dickens,'  it  is  a  part  of  my  gallant  nature  to  squeak 
through  my  quill  '  brayvo'  too. 

"  This  newspaper,  with  other  allotments,  is  hard  work;  but  it 
is  independence.  And  it  was  the  hope  of  it  that  stirred  me  to  the 
doing.  I  have  a  feeling  of  dread — a  something  almost  insane  in 
its  abhorrence  of  the  condition  of  the  old,  worn-out  literary 
man  ;  the  squeezed  orange  {lemons  in  my  case,  sing  some  sweet 
critics) ;  the  spent  bullet ;  the  useless  lumber  of  the  world, 
flung  upon  literary  funds  while  alive,  with  the  hat  to  be  sent 
round  for  his  coffin  and  his  widow.  And  therefore  I  set  up  this 
newspaper,  which — I  am  sure  of  it — you  will  be  glad  to  learn, 
is  a  large  success.  Its  first  number  went  off  18,000  :  it  is  now 
9,000  (at  the  original  outlay  of  about  lr500/.),  and  is  within  a 
fraction  three-fourths  my  own.  It  was  started  at  the  dullest 
of  dull  times,  but  every  week  it  is  steadily  advancing.  I  hope 
to  make  it  an  engine  of  some  good.  And  so  much  for  my 
apology — which,  if  you  resist,  why,  I  hope  Mrs.  Dickens  and 

*  Douglas  Jen  old's  Weekly  News] a  per. 


DOUGLAS  JEREOLD  AT  HOME.  249 

Miss  H (it's  so  long  ago— is  she  still  Miss  ?)  will  take  up  and 

plead  for  me.     *     *     * 

"  You  have  heard,  I  sujipose,  that  Thackeray  is  big  with 
twenty  parts,  and,  unless  he  is  wrong  in  his  time,  expects 
the  first  instalment  at  Christmas.  Punch,  I  believe,  holds 
its  course.  *  *  Nevertheless,  I  do  not  very  cordially  agree 
with  its  new  spirit.  I  am  convinced  that  the  world  will  get  tired 
(at  least  I  hope  so)  of  this  eternal  guffaw  at  all  things.  After 
all,  life  has  something  serious  in  it.  It  cannot  be  all  a  comic 
history  of  humanity.  Some  men  would,  I  believe,  write  the 
Comic  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  Think  of  a  Comic  History  of 
England ;  the  drollery  of  Alfred ;  the  fun  of  Sir  Thomas  More 
in  the  Tower ;  the  farce  of  his  daughter  begging  the  dead  head, 
and  clasping  it  in  her  coffin,  on  her  bosom.  Surely  the  world 
will  be  sick  of  this  blasphemy.  *  *  *  When,  moreover,  the 
change  comes,  unless  Fundi  goes  a  little  back  to  his  occasional 
gravities,  he'll  be  sure  to  suffer.     *     *     * 

"  And  you  are  going  to  Paris  ?  I'm  told  Paris  in  the  spring 
is  very  delectable.  Not  very  bad  sometimes  at  Christmas.  Do 
you  know  anybody  Likely  to  ask  me  to  take  some  bouilli  there  ? 
In  all  seriousness,  give  my  hearty  remembrances  to  your  wife 
and  sister.  I  hope  that  health  and  happiness  are  showered  on 
them,  on  you,  and  all.  And  believe  me,  my  dear  Dickens, 
"  Yours  ever  truly  and  sincerely, 

"Douglas  Jekeold." 

Sometimes,  tired  of  reading  and  letter-writing,  he  would 
join  the  family  circle  for  half  an  hour  before  going  to  bed, 
and  joke  over  the  supper- table,  listening  to  stories  about  the 
dog  or  parrot ;  or  his  door  would  be  heard  on  the  move,  and 
his  step  on  the  stairs,  on  his  way  to  bed,  perhaps  at  ten 
o'clock.  Occasionally  he  eujoyed  a  game  at  whist  or  draughts, 
in  the  winter ;  but  his  rule  was  a  solitary  evening  in  his 
study,  with  his  books. 

He  had  always  some  curious  household  story  to  tell — what 
some  servant  or  one  of  his  grandchildren  had  said,  or  how 
some  ludicrous  contretemps  had  happened.  He  delighted  in 
these  little  social  touches. 

Thus,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  used  to  tell  a  stoiy  of  his 


250  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

son  Thomas,  who,  when  the  family  were  living  in  Boulogne, 
was  a  boy  about  nine  years  old.  He  had  a  rabbit,  of  which 
Lis  father,  as  usual  with  all  animals,  had  taken  great  notice. 
One  morning,  however,  the  boy  burst  bravely  into  his  father's 
bedroom,  holding  the  rabbit  try  the  hind-quarters.  "  Here  he 
is,  papa,"  the  boy  shouted,  "  as  dead  as  mutton  ! " 

The  animal  fell  heavily,  deadly,  on  the  ground.  The  sound 
smote  iipon  the  boy's  heart,  and,  giving  up  his  feigned  indif- 
ference, he  burst  into  tears,  and  blurted  out  amidst  his  sobs, 
"  It  had  the  snuffles  when  I  bought  it  !"  This  bit  of  nature 
was  never  forgotten  by  "  stern"  Douglas  Jerrold. 

Another  favourite  story  was  of  the  footboy  who  accom- 
panied my  father  on  his  trip  to  Derbyshire.  At  the  inn  at 
Matlock  "master"  was  praising  a  glass  of  port,  when  the  boy 
chimed  in,  glad  to  hear  the  hotel  praised  : — 

"  Please,  sir,  I  thinks  they  makes  their  own  poi*t.  /  know 
they  brews." 

His  veterinary  surgeon  at  Putney — a  great  character — was 
a  favourite  subject.  His  bill,  especially,  was  preserved  as  a 
most  laughable  curiosity,  one  of  the  items  being  put  thus 
(referring  to  a  sick  horse) : — 

"  His  nose  was  warm,  bis  ears  was  cold,  and  everything    \  £n  e     «j  » 
gave  signs  of  approaching  desolation         .         .         .J 

Anything  that  occurred  in  Douglas  Jerrold's  house  that 
had  a  humorous  touch  in  it,  was  given  forth  always  as  heartily 
and  unreservedly  as  he  would  have  told  it  to  an  absent  child. 
He  would  never  be  a  conventional  host.  You  must  sit  at  his 
table  as  though  it  were  your  own.  He  would  ask  you  to  con- 
demn the  wine  or  meats  if  he  thought  either  bad,  appealing 
to  you  as  a  perfectly  free  critic.  Reserve,  secretiveness,  he 
could  in  no  sense  understand.  Praise  or  blame  must  come  in 
a  free  current  from  him.  Just  as  he  could  amuse  himself 
talking  and  joking  freely  with  a  child,  he  must  be  with  every 
person  who  approached  him.     Tf  he  were  angry,  you  were 


DOUGLAS  JEKROLD  AT  HOME.         251 

quite  certain  about  it.  The  anger  came  forth  in  l'ed-bot 
words,  the  meaning  of  which  never  admitted  two  interpreta- 
tions. Pleased,  he  talked  his  inmost  thoughts  to  you,  and 
was  astonished  and  disgusted  whenever  he  learned  that  only 
half  a  truth  or  reason  had  been  given  to  him.  He  always 
had,  I  repeat,  some  odd,  humorous  idea  or  story  about  his 
house — something  about  one  of  the  inmates  or  their  domestic 
pets.  Thus,  his  daughter  Mary's  passionate  love  of  birds 
and  dogs  was  twisted  daily  into  new  and  odd  touches  of 
humour.  He  writes  from  Boulogne  in  July,  1856  :  "  I  am 
sony  to  hear  of  the  death  of  the  squirrel,  and  have  dropped 
one  tear.  As  I  had  no  personal  acquaintance  of  ce  petit  mon- 
sieur, I  do  not  think  that  more  can  be  expected  of  me.  Give 
Jane  my  condolence — to  her  it  is,  no  doubt,  a  real  trouble. 
I  am  afraid,  my  dear  Polly,  you  will  be  veiy  dull,  unless 
Mouse  (the  terrier)  becomes  more  conversational.  The 
weather  here  would  do  credit  to  Manchester  in  October — 
dark  and  drizzling."  Writing  from  Brighton  within  two 
months  of  his  death,  he  ended  with,  "  Love  to  all  (Mouse  in- 
cluded)." He  used  also  to  talk  about  a  favourite  cat,  that 
would  sit  all  day  upon  his  table  while  he  was  writing,  and 
watch  slyly,  purring,  the  movements  of  his  pen.  On  Sunday 
afternoons  he  would  take  up  his  stick,  after  a  morning  spent 
alone,  with  his  papers  and  his  Bible  (of  which  he  was  to  the 
last  a  most  diligent  reader,  calling  it  his  church),  and  walk 
over  to  the  Regent's  Park  Zoological  Gardens.  Here,  watch- 
ing the  animals,  and  chatting  with  friends,  he  would  spend 
two  or  three  hours  of  exquisite  pleasure.  The  growth  of  the 
hippopotamus,  the  death  of  the  chimpanzee,  the  pretty 
gazelles,  and  the  humours  of  the  monkeys,  interested  him 
greatly ;  and  he  had  always  something  brisk  and  sprightly 
to  say  as  he  stood  surveying  the  cages.  The  mandril  sud- 
denly turned  his  back,  revealing  the  rich  colours  of  his  hind- 
quarters :  "  That  young  gentleman,"  said  Douglas  Jerrold, 
"  must    have   been  sitting  upon  a  rainbow."     With  his  rich 


252  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

stores  of  natural  history  he  could  thoroughly  enjoy  these  re- 
markable gardens. 

Sometimes  he  would  take  one  of  his  grandchildren  with 
him,  and  find  amusement  and  suggestions  in  its  rapid  prattle. 
And  he  would  return  home  to  dinner  stored  with  the  rich 
fruit  of  a  child's  ignorance,  or  the  quaint  wildness  of  its  free 
speculations.  Or  he  would  come  laughing  into  his  study, 
after  half  an  hour  in  the  garden  with  a  little  prattling  child, 
to  tell  how  it  had  asked  him  to  fetch  its  wheelbarrow,  freely 
as  it  would  have  asked  any  little  playmate  ;  or  how  one  rosy 
little  fellow  had  stood  before  him,  and,  staring  at  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  exclaimed,  "I  say,  grandpapa,  you  wear  your 
moustaches  on  your  eyebrows!"  No  child  ever  left  him 
without  fruit  or  a  book  in  its  hand  ;  and  of  babies  he  always 
wrote  with  almost  a  woman's  teuderness.  Young  St.  Giles 
is  introduced  in  swaddling  clothes — "  a  lovely  human  bud — 
a  sweet,  unsullied  sojourner  of  earth,  cradled  on  the  knees  of 
misery  and  vice." 

Indeed,  he  began  a  series  in  Punch  on  "  Mrs.  Bib's 
Baby,"  and  wandered  gracefully  about  the  cradle,  as  he 
loved  to  wander,  dropping  a  touch  of  poetic  gum  upon 
the  paper,  caught  from  the  coral  lips  or  the  honeyed 
breath  of  sleeping  infancy.  He  could  spend  an  hour  in  his 
study,  with  a  rosy  little  boy  between  his  knees,  playing 
with  his  watch  seals,  and  listening  to  baby-questions,  or 
telling  nursery  gossip.  He  hated  a  knowing  child  :  what 
he  loved  was  the  fresh  nature  in  childhood.  A  prodigy  was 
his  abhorrence. 

Douglas  Jerrold,  at  home,  might  generally  be  found  on 
Sundays  surrounded,  not  by  the  big-wigs  who  would  have 
been  glad  to  find  themselves  in  his  society— -not  by  old, 
serious  professors  of  all  branches  of  learning — certainly  not 
— but  by  young  men  yet  unknown  to  fame.  He  loved  the 
buoyancy,  heartiness,  and  the  boldness  of  youth.  It  was  his 
glory  to  have  about   him   some   six   or  seven  youngsters, 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD   AT  HOME.  253 

hardly  reached  their  majority,  with  whom  he  could  talk 
pleasantly,  and  to  whom  he  poured  out  his  jokes,  grateful 
for  the  heartiness  of  the  reception  they  got  from  warm 
blood.  It  was  the  main  thing  about  his  individuality  that 
he  was  himself  always  young.  "  A  man  is  as  old  as  he 
feels,''  he  insisted  continually ;  and  then  casting  back  the 
solid  flakes  of  his  silvered  hair,  he  would  laugh  and  vow  that 
few  men  of  five-and-twenty  were  younger  than  he.  His 
words,  when  he  spoke  seriously  among  his  young  guests, 
generally  conveyed  some  generous  advice,  or  some  offer  of 
service. 

Many  men  date  their  literary  advancement  from  the  study 
of  Douglas  Jerrold.  He  would  write  a  letter  or  toss  a  cheque 
off  with  the  most  sailor-like  carelessness,  turning  the  conver- 
sation rapidly  off  from  anything  like  business,  to  some 
literary  anecdote  or  some  book  worth  reading.  Then  he 
would  pleasantly  wander  back  to  his  Sheerness  days,  and  to 
the  valiant  struggle  he  had  had  with  the  world.  But  once 
launched  into  this  subject,  it  engrossed  him  for  the  rest 
of  the  sitting.  He  would  recall  the  hour  when,  a  friendless 
buy  in  London  streets,  he  had  stamped  his  foot  angrily 
upon  the  pavement,  and  vowed  that  he  would  be  somebody. 
He  would  quote  with  delight,  and  submit  it  to  his  young 
hearers,  the  valiant  Brougham,  who,  when  he  mounted  the 
coach  in  Edinburgh  ou  his  first  trip  to  London,  exclaimed, 
"  Here  goes  for  lord  chancellor ! "  Then  he  would  say, 
"Plain  living  and  high  thinking,  my  boys  —  that's  the 
maxim."  Then  he  would  remember  that  he  had  not  a 
name  to  which  he  could  point  as  that  of  a  powerful  friend 
who  had  helped  him  when  he  was  young,  and  help  was 
wanted  ;  and  he  would  impress  upon  young  men  entering 
life  with  better  fortune,  the  necessity  of  hard  reading  and 
modest  bearing.  One  young  friend,  whom  he  regarded 
with  great  admiration,  confessed  to  him  that  he  had  had 
the  hardihood  to  attack  him  in  a  comic  publication  before 


2o4  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

they  were  acquainted.  This  friend  was  Mr.  Hannay,  the 
author  of  "Singleton  Fontenoy,"  a  writer  also  sprung  from  the 
salt.  They  were  together,  two  ex-midshipmen,  at  Southend, 
when  the  young  one  made  this  confession  to  his  companion. 
<;  Never  mind,  my  boy,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  every  young  man 
has  spilt  ink  that  had  better  been  left  in  the  horn." 

But  we  are  round  the  study  fire,  where  beech  wood 
crackles,  giving  a  rich  odour,  and  the  heat  radiates  plea- 
santly from  a  stove  of  the  latest  construction.  The  host  is 
proud  to  display  the  capacity  of  the  invention,  and  points 
heartily  also  to  the  crackling  wood,  as  a  happy  mixture  with 
seacoal.  Mouse,  the  terrier,  creeps  to  her  master's  feet,  and 
is  instantly  raised  to  the  arm-chair,  to  form  the  subject  of 
some  odd  anecdote.  Mouse  will  surlily  leave  the  company, 
and  look  doggedly  out  of  window,  if  her  master  pets  the 
cat,  or  even  a  chubby  little  grandson.  You  may  call  her 
while  the  cat  or  child  is  being  fondled ;  but  she  will  not 
turn  her  head  for  a  moment.  But  let  one  of  the  family 
fall  ill,  and  Mouse  will  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  day  and 
night,  and  be  restless  if  turned  thence  for  a  few  minutes. 
The  company  are  asked  to  admire  Mouse's  eyes,  and  to  t^ay 
whether  she  does  not  beg  "like  a  prince  of  the  blood!" 
Other  domestic  talk  bubbles  lightly  up.  It  is,  perhaps,  a 
story  of  a  boy  who  was  promoted  by  the  kind-hearted  host 
from  the  low  degree  of  mudlark  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames 
(having  promised  to  be  all  that  a  page  should  be),  to  the 
comforts  of  a  well-warmed  and  well-filled  kitchen,  with  light 
duties  to  perform.  This  boy  was  petted  and  spoiled.  He 
tired  of  the  restraints  of  regular  employment.  His  whims 
were  laughable.  Let  one  suffice.  He  was  sickly  one  day, 
and  at  once  commanded  the  sympathy  of  his  mistress.  He 
was  attended,  and  fed  with  dainties.  The  young  rogue 
saw  his  power ;  and,  being  passionately  fond  of  muffins, 
thought  that  the  opportunity  had  come  for  indulging  him- 
self.    Whereupon,  at  breakfast-time,  he  was  about  to  toast 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.         2G5 

some,  when  the  indignant  cook  took  the  luxury  from  him. 
He  instantly  sent  an  appeal  up  to  his  mistress's  bedroom 
by  the  maid,  praying  that  he  might  have  buttered  muffins 
for  his  breakfast,  as  he  felt  that  nothing  else  would  do  him 
good. 

Such  gossip  would  lead,  perhaps,  to  stories  of  impostors, 
of  whom  the  host  had  been  the  victim.  There  was  the 
fellow  found  in  an  epileptic  fit  in  Highgate  Lane,  to  whom 
five  shillings  had  been  given,  and  who  was  discovered  a 
fortnight  afterwards  going  through  the  same  performance  in 
Judd  Street,  New  Road ;  there  was  the  accomplished  gen- 
tleman who  talked  many  languages,  and  who  had  been 
compelled  to  pawn  his  l-egimentals,  and  who,  having  fortified 
his  statement  with  a  masterly  array  of  corroborative  facts, 
and  shown  how  he  should  be  ruined  if  he  did  not  redeem  his 
epaulettes,  had  cozened  two  guineas  from  his  credulous 
listener,  but  appeared  on  the  morrow,  under  the  auspices 
of  a  sharp  victim,  at  a  police  court ;  there  was  the  gentle- 
man who  had  died,  and  whose  wife  wrote  for  money  to  bury 
him,  the  dead  gentleman  very  actively  watching  the  return 
post,  that  he  might  enjoy  the  money  forwarded  for  his  own 
funeral  ! 

But  these  sharpers  were  not  the  only  "  friends  "  who  prac- 
tised upon  the  warm  heart  of  Douglas  Jerrold.  Let  any 
man  in  difficulties  find  Douglas  Jerrold  at  home  and  alone, 
and  he  had  all  he  wanted,  and  more,  very  often,  than 
it  was  prudent  in  the  giver  to  cast  from  his  slender  store. 
There  was  a  fatality  about  these  helps  given  to  friends. 
They  were  nearly  always  repaid  in  ingratitude  or  in  indif- 
ference :  hardly  once  did  the  gold  sent  forth  find  its  way 
back  to  its  owner.  Large  sums,  the  payment  of  which 
was  spread  over  long  years,  and  the  last  of  which  was  paid 
not  long  before  the  liberal  writer's  death,  were  thus  sent 
forth,  in  honest  hope  to  help  fellow  men,  by  the  man  whom 
the  world  obstinately  regarded  as  a  most  spiteful  cynic. 


258  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

And  to  the  friends  whom  he  had  known  in  youth  was  he 
especially  kind.  For  some  he  obtained,  through  the  late 
Duke  of  Devonshire  and  the  present  Earl  of  Carlisle,  pre- 
sentations to  the  Charter  House  ;  for  the  widow  of  another, 
an  admission  to  the  Blue-coat  School'.  When  any  of  these 
little  triumphs  had  been  obtained  through  the  exercise  of 
Ins  influence,  he  was  proud  indeed.  He  would  help  the  new 
brothers  to  furnish  the  Charter-House  quarters,  and  call 
them  out  frequently  to  his  simple  table — as  simple  for  a 
lord,  as  for  the  humblest  convive.  It  was  for  this  same 
simplicity  in  Thomas  Hood  that  he  always  cherished  a  great 
regard  for  this  most  tenderly  humorous  poet.  The  fol- 
lowing letter  was  a  cherished  one,  and  deserves  a  place 
here  : — 

"17,  Elm-Tree  Road,  St.  John's  Wood, 
"  Friday  (1842). 
"Dear  Jem  old, 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  '  Cakes  and  Ale,'  and  for  the 
last  especially,  as  I  am  forbidden  to  take  it  in  a  potable  shape. 
Even  Bass's,  which  might  be  a  Bass  relief,  is  denied  to  me.  The 
more  kind  of  you  to  be  my  friend  and  pitcher. 

' '  The  inscription  was  an  unexpected  and  really  a  great 
pleasure  ;  for  I  attach  a  peculiar  value  to  the  regard  and  good 
opinion  of  literary  men.  The  truth  is,  I  love  authorship  as 
Lord  Byron  loved  England — '  with  all  its  faults,'  and  in  spite  of 
its  calamities.  I  am  proud  of  my  profession,  and  veiy  much 
inclined  to  '  stand  by  my  order.'  It  was  this  feeling,  and  no 
undue  estimate  of  the  value  of  my  own  fugitive  works,  that 
induced  me  to  enpage  in  the  copyright  question.  Moreover,  I 
have  always  denied  that  authors  were  an  irritable  genus,  except 
that  their  tempers  have  peculiar  trials,  and  the  exhibitions  are 
public  instead  of  private.  Neither  do  I  allow  the  especial  hatred, 
envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  so  generally  ascribed  to 
us ;  and  here  comes  your  inscription  in  proof  of  my  opinion. 
For  my  own  part,  I  only  regret  that  fortune  has  not  favoured 
me  as  I  could  have  wished,  to  enable  me  to  see  more  of  my 
literary  brethren  around  my  table.  Nevertheless,  as  you  are 
not  altogether  Homes  Douglas,  I  hope  you  will  some  day  find 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT   HOME.  257 

your  way  here.  Allow  me  to  thank  you  also' for  the  Bubbles,  and 
to  congratulate  you  on  your  double  success  on  the  stage,  beiug, 
I  trust,  pay  and  play — not  the  turf  alternative.  I  am,  dear 
Jerrold, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"Thos.  Hood." 

The  quiet  life  of  Hood,  his  violent  hatred  of  cant,   his 
tender  sympathies  with  the  poor  and  lowly,  could  not  but 
endear  him  to  the  author  of  "  Cakes  and  Ale."     The  "  writer 
whose  various  pen  touched  alike  the  springs  of  laughter  and 
the  source  of  tears  "  was  the  man  whose  memory  was  always 
green   in   the   heart   of  Douglas   Jerrold.     And   his   name 
bubbled  up  frequently  over  the  study  fire,  and  his  verse  was 
cited  :  and  his  noble  "  Bridge  of  Sighs  "  and  "  Song  of  the 
Shirt "  were  held  up  as  literary  glories   of  his  time.     For 
there  were  no  half  friendships,  no  half  confidences  before  the 
crackling  beechwood.     A   nettle  was   most    emphatically  a 
nettle,   there.     And  all  enthusiastic,  downright  workers  of 
the   time    were   there    unhesitatingly   applauded.     Kossuth 
was  a  noble  fellow ;  Mazzini  a  patriot ;  Louis  Blanc  a  man 
to  take  heartily  by  the  hand.     With  all,   the  enthusiastic 
host  bad  spoken  and  corresponded.     The  handwriting  of  all 
three  lies  before  me,  acknowledging  or  asking  support  and 
sympathy.     "  I  know  that  you  would  not  fail  me,  if  every- 
body did,"  writes  Joseph  Mazzini.     And  again :  "  But  I  know 
more  ;  and  it  is  that,  whenever  you  do  sympathise,  you  are 
ready  to  act,  to  embody  your  feelings  in  good,  visible,  tan- 
gible symbol ;  and  this  is  not  the  general   rule."     Walter 
Savage  Landor  joins  his  acknowledgments  to  those  of  the 
patriot,  and  makes  a  suggestion  to  "  dear  Douglas  Jerrold." 
''  I  am  very  delighted  to  receive  even  a  few  lines  from  you. 
Be  sure  it  will  gratify  me  to  be  one  of  the  committee  "  (for 
the  Kossuth  testimonial).      "  I  enclose  a  paragraph  from  the 
Hereford  Times.     It  contains  a  most  interesting  tale  about 
the  family  of  Kossuth.     You  possess  the  power  of  drama- 


25S  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JEEROLD. 

Using  it.  Electrify  the  world  by  giving  it  this  stroke  of 
your  genius." 

The  suggestion,  given  in  the  wild  excitement  of  the 
moment,  never  bore  fruit.  It  is  possibly  well  that  it 
remains  a  simple  suggestion,  speaking  chiefly  for  the  honest 
enthusiasm  of  the  writer  ;  and  it  may  be  pleasant  to  him  to 
learn  that  it  was  found  with  the  very  few  letters  kept  by  the 
dramatist,  a  precious  relic  to  the  end.  Louis  Blanc  has 
"many  hearty  thanks  "  to  offer  for  "  kind  remarks"  on  his 
auswer  to  Ledru  Rollins  manifesto. 

Among  the  many  men  who  came  to  the  snug  study  was 
Thorn,  the  weaver-poet  of  Invernry — a  broad,  brawny  Scot, 
whose  condition,  rather  than  his  genins,  made  him  welcome. 
The  kind  heart  of  the  host,  although  it  was  sorely  tried  by 
many  impostures,  still  attracted  to  the  last  all  men  who 
wanted  to  say  something  to  the  world,  and  had  not  the 
opportunity — all  men  who,  having  said  something  or  done 
something,  were  victims,  or  conceived  that  they  were  victims, 
of  the  world's  ingratitude.  Poles,  Hungarians,  Frenchmen, 
found  their  way  to  Putney  and  to  St.  John's  Wood — now 
asking  to  be  relieved,  now  imploring  introductions  that 
should  give  them  work.  They  always  had  a  kind  reception, 
and  help  as  far  as  it  could  be  afforded.  Many  strange  im- 
postors came  too  ;  and  these  were  met,  when  their  trick  was 
discovered,  with  an  outburst  of  passionate  reproach.  The 
confiding  man  can  make  no  terms  with  deceit.  And  when  I 
remember  the  number  of  occasions  on  which  the  subject  of 
this  book  was  deceived — the  fast  friends  who  sought  his 
help,  and  then  avoided  him — I  cannot  but  wonder  as  I  call 
to  mind  the  freshness  of  his  generosity  even  a  week  before 
his  death.  The  last  time  he  signed  his  cheque-book  was  to 
oblige  a  friend ;  the  last  letter  he  received  was  one  in  which 
the  repayment  of  a  loan  was  deferred.  Now,  he  heard  of  a 
friend  who  had  lost  a  wife,  and  was  in  difficulties.  Instantly 
a  cheque  was  drawn,  and  a  tender  letter  was  written.     One 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.         259 

of  these  letters  lies  before  me.  The  friend  to  whom  it  is 
addressed  is  reminded  that  "  sorrow  is  the  penalty  we  pay 
for  life."  From  all  sides,  for  all  kinds  of  services,  came 
letters  of  thanks.  Sheridan  Knowles  says  (February,  1851), 
"  Your  letter  made  me  very  happy ;  and,  again  thanking 
you  for  it,  I  am  most  faithfully,  and  with  prayerful  wishes 
fur  your  happiness  here  and  hereafter,  your  affectionate 
friend."  W.  H.  Russell,  the  Pen  of  the  War,  as  late  as 
April,  1857,  writes  :  "  Thus  see  how  one  good  turn  entails  a 
demand  for  another.  But  your  kindness  to  me  has  been 
boundless,  and  believe  me  that  I  am  sincerely  yours  always." 
"  Jerroldo  mio,"  writes  Leigh  Hunt,  "a  thousand  thanks  for 
the  '  Blue  Jar.'  I  guess  it  to  be  yours,  by  the  old  cedar 
woods,"  <fcc.  He  was  ever,  in  truth,  on  the  watch  to  do  a 
service.  Every  dependent  loved  him  ;  every  old  man  in  his 
neighbourhood  who  sought  his  help,  had  it.  Opposite  his 
window  at  Putney  was  a  green  lane,  where  an  old  man  stood 
to  open  the  gate.  The  man  was  the  weekly  recipient  of 
Douglas  Jerrold's  bounty,  and  was  playfully  called  his 
Putney  Pensioner.  He  might  have  suggested  to  his  bene- 
factor the  paper  entitled  "  The  Old  Man  at  the  Gate,"  which 
was  published  in  The  Illuminated  Magazine. 

My  father  could  not  see  a  yard  of  turf  taken  from  the 
poor  without  a  protest.  In  1849  people  in  the  neighbour- 
hood began  to  cut  the  turf  from  Putney  Lower  Common, 
whereupon  the  tenant  of  West  Lodge  wrote  to  the  Earl 
Spencer,  lord  of  the  manor  : — 

"My  Lord, 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  you  are  aware  of  the  extent  to 
which  Putney  Lower  Common  (upon  which  it  is  my  misfortune 
to  be  a  resident)  is  denuded  of  its  turf.  I  have  now  no  cattle  of 
any  order  to  be  defrauded  of  common  right.  But  there  are  many 
poor  whose  cows  and  geese  are  sorely  nipped  of  what  has  been 
deemed  their  privilege  of  grass — none  of  the  most  luxurious  at 
the  best — by  the  -system  of  spoliation  carried  on  in  your  lord- 
ship's manor,    and   under  your   declared   authority.      At   this 

s  2 


260  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

moment  a  long  stretch  of  common  lies  before  my  window,  so 
much  swamp.  The  turf  has  been  coined  into  a  few  shillings,  to 
the  suffering,  very  patiently  borne,  of  the  cows  aforesaid ;  and 
the  philosophical  endurance  of  the  geese  alone  resisted.  But  I 
am  sure  your  lordship  has  only  to  be  made  acquainted  with 
wrongs  of  the  useful  and  the  innocent — wrongs  inflicted  under 
the  avowed  sanction  of  abused  nobility — to  stay  the  injustice. 
"I  have  the  honour  to  remain,  &c, 

"Douglas  Jeeeold." 

Douglas  Jerrold  at  home  must  be  thoroughly  set  before 
the  reader  before  he  can  comprehend  the  author  of  "  The 
Man  Made  of  Money,"  "  Clovernook,"  and  Time  Works 
Wonders.  All  who  met  him  insisted  upon  his  great  social, 
human  qualities.  The  author  of  "Tangled  Talk"  wrote 
lately  :  "  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon  said,  in  the  Athenazum,  that 
if  every  one  who  had  received  a  kindness  from  the  hand  of 
Douglas  Jerrold  flung  a  flower  on  his  grave,  the  spot  would 
'oe  marked  by  a  mountain  of  roses.  Within  these  three 
years  I  have  been  once  or  twice  his  debtor  for  kind  and 
encouraging  words,  and  I  would  willingly  throw  my  little 
flower.  On  the  very  few  occasions  upon  which  I  saw  him 
personally — not  more  than  twice  or  thrice,  and  under  his 
own  roof — I  found  him  the  most  genial,  sincere,  and  fatherly 
of  men  ;  perfectly  simple,  a  man  who  looked  straight  at  you, 
and  spoke  without  arriere  pensee — without  any  of  that 
double  consciousness  which  makes  the  talk  of  some  men  of 
talent  disagreeable — and  most  thoroughly  human.  That 
'  abounding  humanity,'  which  I  once  said  elsewhere  is  the 
distinguishing  characteristic  of  Mr.  Jerrold's  writing,  shone 
out  conspicuously  in  all  his  behaviour.  It  was  never  necessary, 
as  it  is  in  conversing  with  too  many,  to  say,  by  implication, 
'  Never  mind  the  book,  and  the  reputation,  and  the  wit,  and 
the  wits,  and  what  I  am  thinking  of  you  —am  I  not  a  man 
and  a  brother  1 '  Mr.  Jerrold  recognised  the  manhood  and  the 
brotherhood  so  fully  at  starting,  that  there  was  nothing  to 


DOUGLAS  JEEROLD  AT  HOME.  2<3l 

be  said  about  it ;  and  your  intercourse  with  him  went. 
smoothly  upon  its  true  basis — the  natural  'proclivity'  of 
one  human  creature  for  another.  The  last  time  I  saw  him 
he  spoke  of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  among  the  living,  and  Mr 
Laman  Blanchard  among  the  dead,  with  particular  coi-diali ty. 
I  then  knew  little  of  the  personnel  of  literature,  and  missed, 
I  doubt  not,  the  full  significance  of  what  he  said  about 
others  of  whom  he  spoke  in  kind  terms. 

"  Mr.  Jerrold  had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  children.  On 
the  same  evening  I  heard  him  speak,  with  positive  tears  of 
gratification  in  his  eyes,  of  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Leech,  in  which 
some  gutter-bred  little  ones  were  l'epresented  doing  the 
honours  of  a  mock  party  among  each  other.  No  man  that 
ever  wrote  has  said  so  much  about  '  babies.'  In  the  middle 
of  a  political  leader  you  would  find  such  an  allusion  as, 
'sweeter  than  the  sweetest  bab}'.'  And  his  writings  are  full 
of  a  gracious  domestic  purity,  quite  distinct  from  the  claptrap 
of  the  playwright  or  the  novelist.  The  poetry  that  was  in 
Mr.  Jerrold  has,  I  suspect,  been  much  underrated  by  the 
general  public.  And  I  will  conclude  these  unworthy  words 
(I  would  willingly  have  deferred  flinging  my  little  flower,  till 
in  a  freer  writing  mood  than  at  present,  but  it  is  better 
done  at  once)  by  quoting  a  very  fine  passage  from  his 
'  Chronicles  of  Clovernook,'  which,  he  told  me — as,  indeed, 
any  one  might  guess — contained  more  of  his  true  self,  as  he 
would  like  to  be  known  and  remembered,  than  any  other  of 
his  writings  : — 

"  At  this  time  the  declining  sun  flamed  goldenly  in  the  west. 
It  was  a  glorious  horn-.  The  ah  fell  upon  the  heart  like  balm  ; 
the  sky,  gold  and  vermilion-flecked,  hung,  a  celestial  tent, 
above  mortal  man ;  and  the  fancy-quickened  ear  heard  sweet, 
low  music  from  the  heart  of  earth,  rejoicing  in  that  time  of 
gladness. 

"  'Did  ever  God  walk  the  earth  in  finer  weather?'  said  the 
Hermit.  'And  how  gloriously  the  earth  manifests  the  grandeur 
of  the   Presenco !     How  its  blood  dances  and  glows  in   the 


2C2  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Splendour!  It  courses  the  trunks  of  trees,  and  is  red  and 
golden  in  their  blossoms.  It  sparkles  in  the  myriad  flowers, 
consuming  itself  in  sweetness.  Every  little  earth-blossom  is  as 
an  altar,  burning  incense.  The  heart  of  man,  creative  in  its 
overflowing  happiness,  finds  or  makes  a  fellowship  in  all  things. 
The  birds  have  passing  kindred  with  his  winged  thoughts.  He 
hears  a  stranger,  sweeter  triumph  in  the  skyey  rapture  of  the 
lark;  and  the  cuckoo — constant  egotist! — speaks  to  him  from 
the  deep,  distant  wood,  with  a  strange,  swooning  sound.  All 
things  living  are  a  part  of  him.  In  all  he  sees  and  hears  a  new 
and  deep  significance.  In  that  green  pyramid,  row  above  row, 
what  a  host  of  flowers  !  How  beautiful  and  how  rejoicing ! 
What  a  sullen,  soulless  thing,  the  Great  Pyramid,  to  that 
blossoming  chestnut !  How  different  the  work  and  workmen ! 
A  torrid  monument  of  human  wrong,  haunted  by  flights 
of  ghosts  that  not  ten  thousand  thousand  years  can  lay — a 
pulseless  carcass  built  of  sweat  and  blood  to  garner  rottenness. 
And  that  Pyramid  of  leaves  grew  in  its  strength,  like  silent 
goodness,  heaven  blessing  it ;  and  every  year  it  smiles,  and 
every  year  it  talks  to  fading  generations.  What  a  congregation 
of  spirits — spirits  of  the  season!— it  gathered  circle  above  circle, 
in  its  blossoms ;  and  verily  they  speak  to  man  with  blither  voice 
than  all  the  tongues  of  Egypt.  And,  at  this  delicious  season, 
man  listens  and  makes  answer  to  them — alike  to  them  and  all 
to  the  topmost  blossom  of  the  mighty  tree  as  to  the  greensward 
daisy,  constant  flower,  with  innocent  and  open  look  still  frankly 
staring  at  the  mid-day  sun. 

" '  Evenings  such  as  this,'  continued  the  Hermit,  after  a  pause, 
'  seem  to  me  the  very  holiday  time  of  death ;  an  hour  in  which 
the  slayer,  throned  in  glory,  smiles  benevolently  down  on  man. 
Here,  on  earth,  he  gets  hard  names  among  us  for  the  unseemli- 
ness of  his  looks,  and  the  cruelty  of  his  doings  ;  but  in  an  hour 
like  this,  death  seems  to  me  loving  and  radiant— a  great  bounty, 
f  preading  an  immortal  feast,  and  showing  the  glad  dwelling- 
place  he  leads  men  to. 

"  '  It  would  be  great  happiness  could  we  always  think  so. 
For,  so  considered,  death  is  indeed  a  solemn  beneficence — a 
,-im'ling  liberator,  turning  a  dungeon  door  upon  immortal  day. 
But  when  death,  with  slow  and  torturing  device,  hovers  about 
his  groaning  prey ;  when,  like  a  despot  cunning  in  his  malice, 
he  makes  disease  and  madness  his  dallying  serfs ' 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.         203 

"'  Merciful  God ! '  cried  the  Hermit,  '  spare  me  that  final  terror ! 
Lot  me  not  be  whipped  and  scourged  by  long,  long  suffering  to 
death — be  dragged,  a  shrieking  victim,  downward  to  the  grave  ; 
but  let  my  last  hour  be  solemn,  tranquil,  that  so,  with  open, 
unblenched  eyes,  I  may  look  at  coming  death,  and  feel  upon  my 
cheek  his  kiss  of  peace.' 

"  I  think  this  passage  will  even  add  a  zest  to  your  enjoy- 
ment of  the  sunny  July  weather  in  which  you  will  read  it,'' 
adds  the  kindly  writer  of  "  Tangled  Talk." 

These  pastoral  passages  were  written  during  a  joyous, 
splendid  summer  passed  in  a  beautiful  cottage  not  far  from 
Heme  village.  The  rich,  fat  landscapes  of  Kent  delighted 
the  author  of  "Clovernook"  as  he  wandered  about  the 
shady  lanes  in  his  little  pony  phaeton,  and  gossiped  with 
the  stalwart  Kentish  men.  For  let  him  turn  up  in  a  village 
alehouse  to  quench  a  summer  thirst,  and  he  must  talk  with 
the  men  he  may  find  there,  just  as  in  a  garden  he  must 
meddle  with  the  flowers. 

That  gracefully  tender  recording  tomb  of  roses,  suggested 
by  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon,  appeared  to  strike  all  Douglas 
Jerrold's  friends,  as  the  thing  to  have  said.  It  even  travelled 
to  Australia,  and  found  a  heart  to  receive  it.  Writing  in 
the  Melbourne  Note  Booh  of  September,  1857,  Mr.  R.  H. 
Home,  the  author  of  "  Orion,"  says  : — 

"  There  is  a  claim  which  Douglas  Jerrold  has  upon  my 
memory.  It  is  one  of  a  personal  nature,  and  is  now  mentioned 
for  the  first  time.  Even  in  private,  whenever  I  alluded  to  the 
circumstance,  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  Some 
friendly  hand  in  England,  after  tracing  a  few  outlines  of  his 
life,  which  I  have  seen  extracted  in  one  of  the  Melbourne  papers, 
concludes  in  touching  words  to  this  effect — that,  if  every  one  who 
had  experienced  an  act  of  kindness  from  Jerrold  were  to  throw 
a  flower  upon  his  grave,  there  would  speedily  arise  a  monument 
of  beauty  to  embalm  his  memory.  A  votive  offering  of  this 
kind  haye  I  now  to  send. 

"  I  was,  for  a  number  of  years,  a  director  of  the  Mines  Eoyal 


2G4  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

• 
*  *  *  Company,  in  London,  and  at  a  certain  time  the  governor 
and  some  of  the  directors  (all  rich  men  excepting  one)  thought 
it  judicious  to  cease  paying  any  dividends  during  the  ensuing 
twelve  months.  I  certainly  considered  it,  though  by  no  means 
necessary,  the  most  prudent  course,  and  voted  with  those  who 
proposed  the  measure,  which  was  carried.  At  once,  therefore,  I 
saw  myself  without  any  fixed  income  during  the  coming  year. 
I  had  never  regarded  literature  in  the  light  of  a  profession,  but 
only  as  a  pleasant  addition.  In  this  emergency  I  sent  a  few 
lines  to  Jerrold,  telling  him  how  the  case  stood,  and  proposing 
to  write  a  novel  for  his  magazine,  to  be  completed  within  the 
twelve  months.  By  the  next  post  he  wrote  me:  'Dear  H., 
come  and  take  a  chop  with  me,  and  let's  talk  it  over.'  I  went, 
described  the  subject,  the  characters  by  which  it  was  to  be 
worked  out,  and  the  principles  to  be  developed  (he  asked  me  to 
do  this) ;  sketched  a  sort  of  rough  outline  of  my  design,  and 
was  about  to  give  the  final  result,  when  he  suddenly  anticipated 
me  and  shouted  it  aloud.  It  was  the  novel  of  '  The  Dreamer 
and  the  Worker,'  subsequently  republished  by  Colburn.  The 
publication  of  this,  by  monthly  chapters,  in  JerrolrVs  Magazine, 
was  the  means  of  giving  me  peace  of  mind  for  a  twelvemonth. 
Those  who  have  ever  known  what  it  was  to  expect  a  twelvemonth 
of  struggle  and  doubts,  perhaps  disappointments,  and  probably 
a  thousand  'vexations  of  spirit '  in  dismal  highways  of  the  battle 
of  life,  and  who  have  suddenly  seen  all  this  transformed  into  a 
sunny  course  for  the  fair  exercise  of  the  energies  opened  out 
before  them,  can  best  appreciate  the  kind  and  degree  of  such  a 
service  rendered  at  once,  and  in  so  frank  and  offhand  a  manner. 

"  The  grateful  memory  of  that  year's  peace  of  mind  is  the 
flower  I  now  send  half  across  the  globe,  to  be  affectionately  laid 
upon  the  grave  of  Douglas  Jerrold.     Hail !  and  farewell ! 

"  '  Vale,  vale !  nos  te  ordine  quo  natura  permittet  sequemur.' 

"ElCHAKD  H.  HORNE." 

And  the  offering  is  here  most  gratefully  laid  up. 

Peeping  still  behind  the  walls  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  home, 
he  may  be  found  keeping  up  most  affectionate  greetings 
with  his  friends.  He  who  was  so  ready  to  tender  thanks  for 
the  smallest  service,  was  happy — thrice  happy —  when  he,  in 
his  turn,  had  pleased  a  friend. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.  2"3 

From  Cremona  Mr.  Dickens  wrote  in  1844  : — 

'  It  was  very  hearty  and  good  of  you,  Jerrold,  to  make  that 
affectionate  mention  of  the  '  Carol '  in  Punch;  and,  I  assure  you, 
it  was  not  lost  upon  the  distant  object  of  your  manly  regard,  but 
touched  him  as  you  wished  and  meant  it  should.  I  wish  we  had 
not  lost  so  much  time  in  improving  our  personal  knowledge  of 
each  other.  But  I  have  so  steadily  read  you,  and  so  selfishly 
gratified  myself  in  always  expressing  the  admiration  with  which 
your  gallant  truths  inspired  me,  that  I  must  not  call  it  lost  time 
either." 

Two  years  later  the  friends  are  still  exchanging  friendly 
words.     Mi\  Dickens  writes  this  time  from  Geneva  : — 

"My  dear  Jerrolo, 

"This  day  week  I  finished  my  little  Christmas  book 
(writing  towards  the  close  the  exact  words  of  a  passage  in  your 
affectionate  letter  received  this  morning ;  to  wit,  '  After  all,  life 
has  something  serious  in  it'),  and  ran  over  here  for  a  week's 
rest.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  true  gratification  I  have  had 
in  your  most  hearty  letter.  F.  told  me  that  the  same  spirit 
breathed  through  a  notice  of  '  Dombey '  in  your  paper ;  and  I 
have  been  saying  since  to  K.  and  Or.,  that  there  is  no  such  good 
way  of  testing  the  worth  of  a  literary  friendship  as  by  comparing 
its  influence  on  one's  mind  with  any  that  literary  animosity  can 
produce.  Mr.  W.  will  throw  me  into  a  violent  fit  of  anger  for 
the  moment,  it  is  true ;  but  his  acts  and  deeds  pass  into  the 
death  of  all  bad  things  next  day,  and  rot  out  of  my  memory ; 
whereas  a  generous  sympathy,  like  yours,  is  ever  present  to  me, 
ever  fresh  and  new  to  me — always  stimulating,  cheerful,  and 
delightful.  The  pain  of  unjust  malice  is  lost  in  an  hour.  The 
pleasure  of  a  generous  friendship  is  the  steadiest  joy  in  the 
world.  What  a  glorious  and  comfortable  thing  that  is  to 
think  of! 

"No,  I  don't  get  the  paper*  regularly.  To  the  best  of  my 
recollection  I  have  not  had  more  than  three  numbers — certainly 
not  more  than  four.  But  I  knew  how  busy  you  must  be,  and 
had  no  expectation  of  hearing  from  you  until  I  wrote  from 
Paris  (as  I  intended  doing),  and  implored  you  to  come  and  make 

*  Dou  <'■'   .1  *  r. ■,/<!'.;  Weekly  Newspaper. 


2C0  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

merry  with  us  there.  I  am  truly  pleased  to  receive  your  good 
account  of  that  enterprise.  I  feel  all  you  say  upon  the  subject 
of  the  literary  man  in  his  old  age,  and  know  the  incalculable 

benefit  of  such  a  resource.     *     *     *     Anent  the  '  Comic ' 

and  similar  comicalities  I  feel  exactly  as  you  do.  Their  effect 
upon  me  is  very  disagreeable.  Such  joking  is  like  the  sorrow  of 
of  an  undertaker's  mute,  reversed,  and  is  applied  to  sei'ious  thing* 
with  the  like  propriety  and  force.     *     *     * 

"  Paris  is  good  both  in  the  spring  and  in  the  winter.  So  come, 
first  at  Christmas,  and  let  us  have  a  few  jolly  holidays  together 
at  what  Mr.  Eowland,  of  Ilatton  Garden,  calls  '  that  festive 
season  of  the  year,'  when  the  human  hair  is  peculiarly  liable  to 
come  out  of  curl,  unless,  &c.  I  hope  to  reach  there,  bag  and 
baggage,  by  the  twentieth  of  next  month.  As  soon  as  I  am 
lodged  I  will  write  to  you.  Do  arrange  to  run  over  at  Christ- 
mas time,  and  let  us  be  as  English  and  as  merry  as  we  can. 
It's  nothing  of  a  journey,  and  you  shall  write  '  o'  mornings,'  as 
they  say  in  modern  Elizabethan,  as  much  as  you  like.     *     *     * 

"  The  newspapers  seem  to  know  as  much  about  Switzerland  as 
about  the  Esquimaux  country.  I  should  like  to  show  you  the 
people  as  they  are  here,  or  in  the  Canton  de  Vaud — their  won- 
derful education,  splendid  schools,  comfortable  homes,  great 
intelligence,  and  noble  independence  of  character.  It  is  the 
fashion  among  the  English  to  decry  them,  because  they  are  not 
servile.  I  can  only  say  that,  if  the  first  quarter  of  a  century  of  the 
best  general  education  would  rear  such  a  peasantry  in  Devonshire 
as  exists  about  here,  or  about  Lausanne  ('bating  their  disposition 
towards  drunkenness),  it  would  do  what  I  can  hardly  hope  in  my 
most  sanguine  moods  we  may  effect  in  four  times  that  period. 
The  revolution  here  just  now  (which  has  my  cordial  sympathy) 
was  conducted  with  the  most  gallant,  true,  and  Christian  spirit — 
the  conquering  party  moderate  in  the  first  transports  of  triumph, 
and  forgiving.  I  swear  to  you  that  some  of  the  appeals  to  the 
citizens  of  both  parties,  posted  by  the  new  government  (the 
people's)  on  the  walls,  and  sticking  there  now,  almost  drew  the 
tears  into  my  eyes  as  I  read  thern ;  they  are  so  truly  generous,  and 
so  exalted  in  their  tone — so  far  above  the  miserable  strife  of  poli- 
tics, and  so  devoted  to  the  general  happiness  and  welfare.   *   *   * 

"  I  have  had  great  success  again  in  magnetism.  E.,  who  has 
been  with  us  for  a  week  or  so,  holds  my  magnetic  powers  in 
great  veneration,  and  I  really  think  they  are,  by  some  conjunc- 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD   AT   HOME.  267 

tion  of  chances,  strong.     Let  them,  or  something  else,  hold  you 
to  me  by  the  heart.     Ever,  my  dear  Jerrohl, 

"Affectionately  your  friend, 

"CD." 

Grateful,  indeed,  were  these  words  to  the  earnest  soul 
they  sought.  From  Cremona,  on  the  16th  of  November, 
18-14,  Mr.  Dickens  again  "greeted"  his  friend  lovingly,  and 
signed  himself "  always  your  friend  and  admirer."  From 
Paris,  in  1847,  still  Mr.  Dickens  sends  over  hearty  words  of 
friendship  and  most  pleasant  gossip.  One  letter,  dated  the 
14th  of  February,  includes  an  anecdote  that,  through  this 
letter,  reached  every  paper  in  Europe.  I  give  it  in  Mr. 
Dickens's  words  : — 

' '  I  am  somehow  reminded  of  a  good  story  I  heard  the  other 
night  from  a  man  who  was  a  witness  of  it,  and  an  actor  in  it. 
At  a  certain  German  town  last  autumn  there  was  a  tremendous 
furore  about  Jenny  Lind,  who,  after  driving  the  whole  place 
mad,  left  it,  on  her  travels,  early  one  morning.  The  moment  her 
carriage  was  outside  the  gates  a  party  of  rampant  students,  who 
had  escorted  it,  rushed  back  to  the  inn,  demanded  to  be  shown 
to  her  bedroom,  swept  like  a  whirlwind  up-stairs  into  the  room 
indicated  to  them,  tore  up  the  sheets,  and  wore  them  in  strips 
as  decorations.  An  hour  or  two  afterwards  a  bald  old  gentle- 
man of  amiable  appearance,  an  Englishman,  who  was  staying  in 
the  hotel,  came  to  breakfast  at  the  table  d'hote,  and  was  observed 
to  be  much  disturbed  in  his  mind,  and  to  show  great  terror  when- 
ever a  student  came  near  him.  At  last  he  said  in  a  low  voice 
to  some  people  who  were  near  him  at  the  table,  '  You  are  English 
gentlemen,  I  observe.  Most  extraordinary  people  these  Ger- 
mans !  Students,  as  a  body,  raving  mad,  gentlemen  ! '  '  O  no  !' 
said  somebody  else  ;  '  excitable,  but  very  good  fellows,  and  very 
sensible.'  '  By  God,  sir  ! '  returned  the  old  gentleman,  still  more 
orbed;  'then  there's  something  political  in  it,  and  I  am  a 
marked  man.  I  went  out  for  a  little  walk  this  morning  after 
shaving,  and  while  I  was  gone' — he  fell  into  a  terrible  perspira- 
tion as  he  told  it — '  they  burst  into  my  bedroom,'  tore  up  my 
sheets,  and  are  now  patrolling  the  town  in  all  directions  with 
bits  of  'em  in  their  button-holes  !'  I  needn't  wind  up  by  adding 
that  they  had  gone  to  the  wrong  chamber." 


■>08  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

And  then  the  correspondence  between  the  two  friends 
would  take  a  serious  turn,  the  subject  becoming  no  less 
solemn  than  the  punishment  of  death.  "  In  a  letter  I  have 
received  from  G.  this  morning,"  Mr.  Dickens  writes  from 
Devonshire  Terrace,  on  the  17th  of  November,  1849,  "  he 
quotes  a  recent  letter  from  you,  in  which  you  deprecate  the 
'  mystery  '  of  private  hanging. 

"  Will  you  consider  what  punishment  there  is,  except 
death,  to  which  '  mystery '  does  not  attach  ?  Will  you  con- 
sider whether  all  the  improvements  in  prisons  and  punish- 
ments that  have  been  made  within  the  last  twenty  years 
have,  or  have  not,  been  all  pi-oductive  of  '  mystery  1 '  I  can 
remember  very  well  when  the  silent  system  was  objected  to 
as  mysterious,  and  opposed  to  the  genius  of  English  society. 
Yet  there  is  no  question  that  it  has  been  a  great  benefit. 
The  prison  vans  are  mysterious  vehicles ;  but  surely  they 
are  better  than  the  old  system  of  marching  prisoners  through 
the  streets  chained  to  a  long  chain,  like  the  galley  slaves  in 
Don  Quixote.  Is  there  no  mystery  about  transportation, 
and  our  manner  of  sending  men  away  to  Norfolk  Island,  or 
elsewhere  1  None  in  abandoning  the  use  of  a  man's  name, 
and  knowing  him  only  by  a  number?  Is  not  the  whole 
improved  and  altered  system,  from  the  beginning  to  end,  a 
mystery  ?  I  wish  I  could  induce  you  to  feel  justified  in 
leaving  that  word  to  the  platform  people,  on  the  strength  of 
your  knowledge  of  what  crime  was,  and  of  what  its  punish- 
ments were,  in  the  days  when  there  was  no  mystery  con- 
nected with  these  things,  and  all  wras  as  open  as  Bridewell 
when  Ned  Ward  went  to  see  the  women  whipped." 

To  which  Douglas  Jerrold  made  reply  from  Putney  on  the 
20th  of  November  : — 

"  My  dear  Dickests, 

"  *  *  *  It  seems  to  me  that  what  you  argue  with 
reference  to  the  treatment  of  the  convict  criminal  hardly  applies 
to  the  proposed  privacy  of  hanging  him.    The  '  mystery  '  which, 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT   HOME.  2G9 

in  our  better  discipline,  surrounds  the  living,  is  eventually  for 
his  benefit.  If  his  name  merge  in  a  number,  it  is  that  he 
may  have  a  chance  of  obtaining  back  the  name  cleansed  some- 
what. 

"  If  it  be  proved — and  can  there  be  a  doubt  of  such  proof  ? — 
that  public  execution  fails  to  have  a  salutary  influence  on 
society,  then  the  last  argument  for  the  punishment  of  death  is, 
in  my  opinion,  utterly  destroyed.  Private  hanging,  with  the 
mob,  would  become  an  abstract  idea. 

' '  But  what  I  sincerely  lament  in  your  letter  of  yesterday,  is 
that,  in  its  advocacy  of  private  executions,  it  implies  their  con- 
tinued necessity.  The  sturdy  anti-abolitionist  may  count  upon 
it  as  upon  his  side.  I  am  grieved  that  the  weight  of  your  name, 
and  the  influence  of  your  reputation,  should  be  claimed  by  such 
a  party. 

"  Grant  private  hanging,  and  you  perpetuate  the  punishment; 
and  the  mischief  wrested  from  your  letter  is  this :  it  may  induce 
some — not  many,  I  hope — willing,  even  in  despair,  to  give  up 
the  punishment  of  death,  now  to  contend  for  its  continuance 
when  inflicted  in  secresy.  *  *  *  As  to  the  folly  and  wicked- 
ness of  the  infliction  of  death  as  a  punishment,  possibly  I  may 
consider  them  from  a  too  transcendental  point.  I  believe,  not- 
withstanding, that  society  will  rise  to  it.  In  the  meantime  my 
Tom  Thumb  voice  must  be  raised  against  any  compromise  that, 
in  the  sincerity  of  my  opinion,  shall  tend  to  continue  the  hang- 
man among  us,  whether  in  the  Old  Bailey  street,  or  in  the 
prison  press-yard. 

"  Sorry  am  I,  my  dear  Dickens,  to  differ  from  any  opinion  of 
yours — most  sorry  upon  an  opinion  so  grave ;  but  both  of  us  are 
only  the  instruments  of  our  convictions." 

Letters  of  invitation,  too,  came  by  scores  to  Douglas 
Jerrold  at  home.  Now  from  Lord  Melbourne,  asking  him  to 
meet  "  the  Gordons,"  Lord  Morpeth,  and  others  ;  now  from 
Dr.  Mackay,  to  meet  Jules  Janin  ;  now  from  his  old  friend 
Thomas  Landseer,  "to  take  a  chop  at  six;"  now  from  Sir 
Joseph  Paxton,  to  pass  a  quiet  Sunday,  now  from  Lord 
Nugent,  to  enjoy  a  few  days  at  Lilies  ;  now  from  Sir  E. 
Bulwer  Lytton,  to  pass  some  social  hours  at  Knebworth  ; 
and  now  from  poor  Mr.  Samuel  Phillips,  to  have  a  chat  at 


270  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Hastings.  The  last  letter  from  this  early  friend,  dated  from 
Brighton,  is  a  very  sad  one  ;  and  I  find  it  inclosed,  with  the 
note,  written  only  two  days  later,  from  a  mutual  friend, 
announcing  Mr.  Phillips's  death.  Mr.  Phillips's  letter  la 
dated  October  12th,  1854.     He  writes  : — 

"  My  bear  Jerrold, 

"Thanks  for  the  little  book"  (The  mart  of  Gold  1 
infer),  "which  has  been  sent  on  to  me  to  this  place.  I  shall 
read  the  play  to-morrow.     I  can  no  longer  see  one  ;  and  I  lose 

nothing  in  this  instance  if  your  account  of  E be  correct,  as 

I  believe  it  is.  We  are  here  until  the  12th  of  December,  when 
we  go  to  town,  where  I  have  purchased  a  house  as  a  permanent 
residence,  close  to  Melbourne  Terrace,  and  not  far  from  you.  So 
I  hope  we  may  oftener  meet.  Will  you  run  down  to  Brighton  for 
a  couple  of  days  during  our  stay  ?  Do.  We  can  give  you  bed  and 
board  and  a  hearty  welcome,  as  you  know.  I  should  like  to  have 
a  long  chat  with  you  over  the  fire  ;  for  it  is  an  age  since  we  met. 
Come  to  us  if  you  can,  and  fix  your  own  time. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  Sam.  Phillips." 

To  meet  oftener  !  To  have  a  chat  over  the  fire  !  To  be 
installed  in  a  permanent  residence  !  All  is  written  in  a 
clear,  steady  hand.  And  in  two  days  Samuel  Phillips  was 
dead !  The  shock  was  a  severe  one  to  his  friend.  I  was 
by  when  my  father  received  the  letter  announcing  the 
catastrophe.  He  could  hardly  express  his  emotion.  He 
was  about  to  pass  his  morning  in  his  study  at  work  ;  but 
in  a  few  minutes  his  stick  was  in  his  hand,  and  he  was 
sharply  walking  along  the  gravel  path  to  the  gate.  He 
must  be  out — alone.  He  could  not  sit  with  the  tumult  that 
was  in  him. 

And  now  another  letter  comes  from  W.  H.  Russell,  the 
Pen  of  the  War.  '*  You  are  indeed  a  leal  and  kind  good 
friend  to  me,  my  dear  Douglas  Jerrold."  And  Douglas 
Jerrold  ivas  the  friend  of  the  great  "  Pen,"  and  admired  him 
profoundly. 


DOUGLAS  JEEEOLD  AT   HOME.  271 

These  worm  friends  were  wanted  to  strengthen  Douglas 
Jerrold's  heart  against  the  world  that  still  perversely  would 
misunderstand  him.  And  he  took  them  enthusiastically  to 
his  heart,  and  bade  them  be  about  him  always.  Sunday 
was  a  day,  with  him,  sacred  to  hospitality.  On  that  day 
there  was  a  knife  and  fork  for  any  friend  who  might  choose 
to  use  them.  "  Cottage  fare,"  he  would  say  again  and  again, 
as  he  received  the  droppers-in.  And  then  an  afternoon  in 
the  garden  if  possible,  when  he  would  wauder  past  the 
fluwer-beds,  rather  proud  of  the  botanical  knowledge  which 
he  had  been  storing  all  his  life,  and  delighted  when  he  saw- 
that  a  friend  took  particular  interest  in  any  alteration,  or  was 
very  happy  in  a  shady  rustic  retreat.  He  could  hardly  exist 
in  a  house  that  had  no  garden.  He  could  not  understand 
men  who  set  down  their  household  gods  in  the  smoke  and 
noise  of  London.  To  Lady  Morgan,  who  said  that  she  should 
like  to  call  upon  him,  but  that  he  must  have  so  many  visitors, 
his  house  out  of  town  must  be  like  an  hotel,  he  answered  : 
"  Your  ladyship  wdl  be  always  welcome  to  the  Jerrold 
Arms." 

When  he  suddenly  returned  from  Boulogne,  even  in  the 
bitter  December  of  1842,  he  must  take  a  cottage  in  the 
Yale  of  Health,  Hampstead  ;  whence,  on  the  1st  of  January 
1843,  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Mr.  Forster  : — 

' '  A  happy  new  year  to  you !  I  have  at  last  a  tranquil 
moment,  which  I  employ  in  jotting  a  few  words  to  you.  I 
should  have  called  upon  you  when  I  came  to  see  Alexander" 
(for  rheumatism  in  the  eyes,  that  had  almost  cost  him  his  sight), 
«'but  was  summoned  hack  to  Boulogne,  where  I  found  my  dear 
niece — a  loveable,  affectionate  creature,  little  less  to  me  than  a 
daughter — in  her  coffin  at  my  house.  She  had  died  of  typhus  at 
school — died  in  her  fourteenth  year.  I  found  my  wife  almost 
frantic  with  what  she  felt  to  he  a  terrible  responsibility  ;  for  we 
had  brought  the  child  only  the  last  April  from  her  heart-brokon 
mother,  to  Boulogne.  I  assure  you  I  have  been  so  harassed  by 
bodily  and  mental  annoyance   I  might  say  torture,  that  I  have 


272  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

scarcely  any  notion  of  how  the  time  has  passed  since  I  last  saw 
you.  We  are,  however,  now  settling  down  into  something  like 
tranquillity.  I  am  myself  much  better,  with  the  healthful  use 
of  my  sight.  I  have  taken  a  house  near  Regent's  Park 
(Park  Village),  and  hope  to  be  in  it  in  a  few  days,  with  all 
my  family.  *  *  *  Possibly  we  may  meet  at  Talfourd's  on 
Thursday." 

It  was  hence,  December  25,  1842,  he  wrote  to  Laman 
Blanchard  : — 

"My  dear  Blanchard, 

"  And  here  am  I,  on  this  Christmas  evening,  in  a  room 
of  some  ten  feet  by  six  in  the  Vale  of  Health,  Hampstead.  My 
God  !  I  have  lived  a  whole  year  since  I  saw  you.  Last  Monday 
night  I  was  summoned  to  Boulogne  by  a  letter  from  Mary, 
informing  me  of  the  sudden  and  dangerous  illness  of  Hammond's 
second  child.  You,  doubtless,  recollect  the  little  plain,  intelli- 
gent, affectionate  thing  you  saw  at  Essex  Street,  and  whom  you 
likened  to  Malibran.  I  crossed  from  Dover  in  a  hurricane  on 
Tuesday,  and  found  that  loving  and  loveable  creature  coffined  in 
my  house.  My  wife  was  nearly  frantic,  worn  out  by  watching  and 
anxiety,  and  continually  reproaching  herself  as  an  accomplice  in 
the  child's  death,  we  having  brought  her  from  England  only  last 
April.  The  end  of  all  this  is,  I  saw  the  child  laid  in  a  French 
grave  on  Thursday  last,  and  immediately  returned,  bringing 
my  girls  with  me — the  boys  (as  soon  as  I  can  get  a  habitation) 
follow. 

"  You  will  judge  of  my  condition  for  three  days,  hoping,  yet 
dreading,  the  arrival  of  Hammond ;  wishing  to  keep  the  body 
out  of  the  earth  as  long  as  possible,  that  the  father  might  have 
the  miserable  consolation  of  following  it  to  the  churchyard,  with 
a  horror  lest  the  other  children  might  become  disease-struck 
from  the  rapid  decomposition  of  the  body — the  dear  creature 
having  died  from  typhus. 

"  At  this  moment  I  dread  to  hear  from  Liverpool,  knowing 
the  intense  feelings  of  the  mother  and  her  peculiarly  nervous 
susceptibility.  I  thank  God,  she  has  a  baby  of  some  weeks  old 
to  divert  her  misery. 

' '  God  bless  you !     I  shall  see  you  in  a  few  days. 

"Douglas  Jerrold." 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AT  HOME.         273 

Now  and  then  foreign  celebrities  appeared  at  his  gate  ; 
but,  unless  he  knew  something  of  them  beyond  their  book, 
he  received  them  shily.  He  had  a  horror  of  those  con- 
coctors  of  travel  books,  who  make  their  way  behind  the 
scenes  of  known  men's  homes,  and  then  note  how  many 
times  their  distinguished  host  was  helped  to  peas,  and  how 
many  flounces  his  wife  had  to  her  skirt. 

Of  the  many  home  incidents  which  Douglas  Jerrold  used 
in  his  writings,  the  story  of  a  peacock  and  peahen  which 
were  given  to  him  by  a  friend  connected  with  the  Surrey 
Zoological  Gardens  is,  perhaps,  the  most  humorous.  I 
remember  the  birds  well  upon  the  lawn  in  Thistle  Grove, 
Chelsea  ;  how  the  male  bird  spread  out  the  glories  of  his 
tail  before  the  breakfast-room  window  ;  and  how  he  dragged 
his  tumbled  splendour,  on  wet  days,  under  the  tea  tree  that 
grew  against  the  stables.  But  he  was  a  noisy  bird,  and  he 
was  continually  wandering  into  fields  and  neighbours'  gar- 
dens, and  was  brought  back  by  boys  or  men,  who  asked 
heavy  gratuities  for  the  capture.  A  friend  had  long  ad- 
mired the  birds,  and  at  last  it  was  resolved  that  this  friend 
should  be  presented  with  them.  He  said  his  grounds  would 
be  greatly  enlivened  by  the  peacock. 

Not  many  weeks,  however,  after  the  birds  had  been  sent 
to  their  new  home,  a  member  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  family 
happened  to  call  at  a  poulterer's  shop  near  the  residence  of 
the  peacock's  new  master.  The  conversation  turned  to  the 
peacock.  Possibly  the  customer  inquired  whether  the  poul- 
terer had  heard  any  complaints  of  the  bird  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  poulterer  smiled ;  he  had  dealt  with  peacock 
and  peahen  long  since ;  they  had  reached  his  shop  almost 
direct  from  Thistle  Grove,  and  had  been  exchanged  by  their 
new  master  for  fowls  and  ducks,  for  the  table.  It  was  this 
peacock,  however,  that  furnished  the  material  for  an  inci- 
dent, related  by  Douglas  Jerrold  in  the  Freemasons  Quarterly 
Jlevino  in  IS.  7. 


274  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Let  me  close  this  attempt  to  present  my  father  to  the 
reader  en  robe  de  cliambre,  with  an  anecdote.  While  living 
at  Putney  he  ordered  a  brougham — plain  and  quiet — to  be 
built  for  him.  He  went  one  morning  to  the  coach-builder's 
shop  to  see  the  new  carriage.  Its  surface  was  without  a 
speck.  "  Ah  !  "  said  the  customer,  as  he  turned  to  the  back 
of  the  vehicle,  "  its  polish  is  perfect  now ;  but  the  urchins 
will  soon  cover  it  with  sci'atches." 

"  But,  sir,  I  can  put  a  few  spikes  here,  that  will  keep  any 
urchins  off,"  the  coach-maker  answered. 

"  By  no  means,  man,"  was  the  sharp,  severe  reply.  "  And 
know  that,  to  me,  a  thousand  scratches  on  my  carriage  would 
be  more  welcome  than  one  on  the  hand  of  a  footsore  lad,  to 
whom  a  stolen  lift  might  be  a  godsend." 

"  I  always  loved  Jerrold  after  this,"  adds  the  gentleman 
to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  this  incident. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

OUT   OF  TOWN. 

There  was  hardly  a  spot  of  the  earth  which  Douglas 
Jerrold,  at  some  time  of  his  life  had  not  longed  to  visit. 
He  never  travelled  far  in  reality,  but  with  every  spring  his 
imagination  took  wing,  and  bore  him  half  over  Europe. 
Now  he  was  going  on  a  cruise  to  Portugal ;  and  now,  among 
the  vines,  he  was  to  pass  a  few  happy  weeks  in  the  Italian 
palazzo  of  Charles  Dickens  ;  and  now  he  was  to  sail  about 
the  Mediterranean  with  Lord  Nugent.  He  even  projected  a 
visit  to  Constantinople ;  but,  giving  it  suddenly  up,  he 
turned  sardouically  to  his  wife,  and  said,  "  Well,  my  dear,  if 
it  can't  be  Constantinople,  what  do  you  say  to  Highgate  1 " 
And  forthwith  he  sallied  out  on  a  walk  through  the  fields 
that  lie  between  Hampstead  and  Highgate  Hill — now  talking 
to  the  children  picking  the  buttercups,  and  now  picking  one 
himself,  and  dissecting  it.  "  If  they  cost  a  shilling  a  root, 
how  beautiful  they'd  be,"  he  would  say,  and  cast  the  stem 
away.     One  dog,  at  least,  would  be  at  his  heels. 

He  had  passed  far  on  his  pilgrimage,  however,  before  he 
was  able  to  see  any  of  the  places  of  which  he  had  dreamed. 
He  spent  a  few  weeks  with  his  brother-in-law  at  Doncaster 
about  1833 — 34,*  and  paid  a  flying  visit  to  the  Rhine,  a  few 
years  later,  with  his  friend  Mr.  Gould,  a,  farceur  as  celebr;ir  1 
in  his  day  as  Vivier  in  the  present.     This  was  his  first  trip ; 

*  Here,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Forster,  he  intended  to  write  "such  a 
comedy ! " 

T  2 


276  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD 

and  he  had  wonderful  stories  of  the  jokes  played  by  his 
companion,  on  the  way. 

He  had  already,  as  I  have  shown,  been  forced  to  Paris 
for  a  month  or  two  ;  but  he  had  been  shut  up  by  the  cold, 
and  work  had  pressed  heavily  upon  him  ;  whereas  his  notion? 
of  being  out  of  town  were  based  on  a  perfect  emancipation 
from  the  daily  duties  of  his  most  arduous  profession.  He 
accomplished  a  short  trip  to  Boulogne  (to  fetch  myself  and 
brother  from  school)  in  the  summer  of  1839,  in  the  com- 
pany of  Mr.  Kenny  Meadows  and  the  late  Mr.  Orrin  Smith. 
I  remember  his  arrival  well — how  he  took  us  from  our 
school,  and  sallied  forth  into  the  country  with  us,  on  a 
donkey  expedition — he  not  the  oldest  boy  present.  Every- 
thing was  delightful.  He  chatted  gaily  with  the  paysanne 
of  a  roadside  auherge  on  the  Calais  road,  and  joked  upon  her 
sour  cider.  He  listened  laughingly  to  our  stories  of  school- 
fights,  and  to  our  disdain  for  the  juvenile  specimens  of  our 
lively  neighbours.  My  brother  described  a  hurt  one  of  the 
boys  had  received.  My  father  asked  anxiously  about  it ; 
whereupon  my  brother,  to  turn  off  the  paternal  sympathy, 
and  prove  in  a  word  that  the  matter  was  not  worth  a 
moment's  thought,  added  sharply,  "  Oh  !  it's  only  a  French 
boy,  papa  !  "     Then  a  burst  of  laughter. 

We  crossed  back  from  Boulogne  to  Rye  by  steamer,  and 
so  to  Hastings  and  London  by  coach.  How  the  laughter  of 
the  happy  party  echoed  along  the  road — free,  joyous  spirits, 
for  the  time  independent  of  the  world's  cares,  and  drinking 
in  the  rich  air  of  the  fields  : — the  cool  breeze  of  the  sea  !  I 
bold  a  vivid  remembrance  of  that  happy  day  outside  the 
London  stage. 

Again,  in  1841,  Douglas  Jen*old  turned  happily  from 
London  to  his  favourite  seaport,  Boulogne.  He  had  turned 
his  back  upon  the  great  city  for  some  months,  full  of  great 
projects,  to  he  achieved  in  a  quiet  lane  opening  to  the  sweet 
VaV.ee  du  Douacre.     Ay,  poor  Mrs.  Jordan's  old  cottage  is 


OUT  OF  TOWN.  277 

to  let.  The  trees  ai'e  green  and  shady  about  it  ;  from  the 
•windows  of  the  little  room  that  shall  be  the  study,  and 
where  the  Prisoner  of  War  shall  flow  from  the  brain  of  the 
new  tenant  to  the  point  of  his  pen,  a  pretty  terraced  garden 
may  be  seen.  Opposite  lies,  basking  in  the  sun,  a  snug 
farmer's  wealth  of  pigs  and  cows,  and  geese  and  turkeys. 
A  three  minutes'  walk  hence  into  the  cornfields,  and 
you  may  look  over  the  tumbling  waves  of  that  precious 
channel,  "the  best  thing,"  as  the  new  tenant  of  Mrs. 
Jordan's  old  house  says,  "  between  England  and  France," 
not  excepting  the  alliance  !  Here  shall  many  happy  months 
be  passed,  with  friends  who  shall  drop  across  the  salt  sea  to 
visit  the  lively  hermit ;  and  go  gipsying  with  him  ;  and 
spend  happy  afternoons  with  him,  in  the  leafy,  terraced 
garden,  over  syllabub,  for  which  the  sweet-breathed  cows 
opposite  are  ever  ready  to  provide  the  new  and  foaming 
milk.  Many  were  the  happy  mornings,  when  you  might 
have  seen  some  half-dozen  donkeys  buried  under  sheepskin 
saddles,  bobbing  their  patient  noses  between  the  green  rail- 
ings of  Mrs.  Jordan's  old  house.  Within,  the  bustle  and 
talk  were  wild.  Hampers  were  being  packed  ;  the  strictest 
injunctions  were  being  given  to  the  young  gentlemen  of  the 
party,  to  respect  all  and  every  description  of  pie-crust,  till 
the  party  should  meet  at  Souverain  Moulin;  the  salad  mix- 
ture was  being  guarded  as  something  sacred  in  a  pic-nic  ; 
and  bottles  could  not  have  been  more  carefully  clothed,  had 
they  been  babies. 

Then  the  merry  party  bound  forth  !  Hampers,  and 
baskets,  and  bags  are  tied  to  the  sheepskin  saddles ;  ladies 
are  adjusted  upon  the  asses,  and  off  for  the  day.  The 
patient  animals,  under  the  fire  of  incessant  jocosities  from 
the  gentlemen  behind,  amble  along  the  narrow  paths,  and  now 
perplex  fair  riders  by  walking  through  rapid  streams ;  and 
now,  arrived  at  their  destination,  trot  into  mine  host's  kit- 
chen at  Souverain  Moulin,  calmly  as  they  would  pass  into  a 


278  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEM10LD. 

field.  Merrily  the  hours  dance  along — a  laugh  will  answer 
even  if  the  salad  mixture  have  been  spilt.  And  the  cool 
evening  will  find  the  same  party  trotting  homewards.  Days 
like  these ;  then  snug  dinners  at  home  (there  is  always  a 
well-loved  flesh  melon  cooling  inside  one  of  those  garden 
terraces)  ;  evenings  at  the  pier-head,  watching  the  London 
boat's  black  hull  and  twinkling  cabin  lights  fade  under  the 
western  clouds  ;  mornings  of  constant,  cool-headed  work  ; 
before  dinner,  strolls  through  the  crowds  of  chattering 
market  people — and  all  this  in  country  guise  (here  is  one  of 
the  charms  of  it) — these  are  the  features  of  two  happy 
summers.     To  be  darkened  at  last,  unhappily. 

The  happy  dramatist  sauntered  one  evening  to  the  pier- 
head, with  a  book  in  his  pocket.  It  was  autumn,  and  the 
wind  had  a  touch  of  ice  in  it.  Still  he  sat  down  and  read. 
He  read  long  enough,  too,  to  feel  a  chill.  He  walked 
rapidly  home,  and  in  a  few  days  the  old  enemy,  rheumatism, 
attacked  his  eyes ;  the  shutters  of  his  room  were  closed  (he 
had  moved  to  Capecure  lately),  and  he  lay  upon  his  back, 
most  sorely  oppressed.  And  a  French  doctor  came  to  him, 
and  treated  him  as  a  horse  might  be  treated.  He  was 
blistered,  and  again  blistered.  He  shrieked  if  the  light  of 
the  smallest  candle  reached  him  ;  yet  he  could,  if  the  chord 
were  touched,  say  a  sharp  thing.  This  French  doctor  had 
just  been  operating  upon  the  patient.  The  patient  had 
winced  a  little,  and  the  operator  had  said,  "  Tut !  tut !  It's 
nothing — nothing  at  all  !  " 

Presently  some  hot  water  was  brought  in.  The  doctor 
put  his  fingers  in  it,  and  sharply  withdrew  them,  with  an 
oath.  The  patient,  who  was  now  lying,  faint,  upon  the  sofa, 
said,  "  Tut !  tut !     It's  nothing— nothing  at  all ! " 

This  illness  lasted  for  five  weeks,  and  at  length  the 
patient's  eyes  got  better.  At  this  moment  he  wrote,  but  in 
sad  spirits,  to  Mr.  Forster.  It  was  now  November,  1842. 
He  wrote  : — 


OUT   OF   TOWN'.  279 

"  In  dread  of  a  relapse,  I  have  resolved  to  avail  myself  of  the 
first  fair  day  (for  here  the  weather  continues  very  bad),  and 
start  for  England.  I  have  tried  for  several  mornings  to  work, 
but  cannot.  After  half  an  hour's  application,  or  less,  reading  or 
writing,  thick  spots  obscure  my  sight,  and  then  come  all  sorts  of 
horrid  apprehensions.  Yet  I  strive  to  think  it  is  nothing  but 
weakness,  which  rest,  and  rest  only,  will  remedy.  On  this, 
however,  I  come  (and  have  resolved  to  settle  in  England)  for 
advice.  I  now  despair  being  able  to  complete  '  Rabelais,'  for, 
though  I  might  still  eke  out  sight  enough  for  it  without  any 
permanent  evil,  yet  the  nervous  irritability  which  besets  me. 
weakens  every  mental  faculty.  Tou  will,  I  hope,  believe  me 
truly  distressed  at  the  inconvenience  I  shall  draw  upon  you, 
which,  at  no  small  risk,  I  would,  if  possible,  prevent.  If,  how- 
ever, I  am  to  work  again,  '  Rabelais'  shaU  be  the  first  thing  I 
complete.     I  shaU  see  you  in  a  few  days. 

"  Yours  ever  most  truly  (and  sadly), 

"D.  Jerrold." 

The  allusion  to  "  Rabelais  "  needs  explanation.  Douglas 
Jerrold  was  a  most  diligent,  a  most  enthusiastic  student  of 
the  gi'eat  Frenchman.  Mr.  Forster  reminds  me  that  my 
father  never  tired  of  talking  over  "  Rabelais "  with  him, 
through  all  the  years  of  their  intimacy.  "  And,"  Mr. 
Forster  adds,  "  I  never,  in  my  expei'ience,  found  an  under- 
standing of,  and  liking  for,  '  Rabelais '  other  than  the  sure 
test  of  a  well-read  man.  Your  father  had  read  and  studied 
a  great  deal  more  than  those  who  most  intimately  knew  him 
would  always  have  been  prepared  to  give  him  credit  for." 
Mr.  Forster  was,  at  the  time  now  referred  to,  the  editor  of  the 
Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  and  wished  his  friend  to  write  an 
article  on  their  favourite,  for  the  review — a  wish  that  was 
never  fulfilled. 

At  the  end  of  1842  Douglas  Jerrold,  as  I  have  noticed 
in  the  preceding  chaptci*,  returned  to  London — weak  from 
illness — in  low  spirits  ;  for  he  had  just  buried  a  niece  who, 
as  he  said,  was  almost  a  daughter  to  him.  But  the  spring 
burst  in  1843  only  to  make  him  turn  from  his  cottage  in 


280  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Park  Village,  Regent's  Park,  towards  the  country.  Some 
friends  lived  near  Heme  Bay.  He  had  heard  that  the  place 
was  quiet — the  country  about,  rich  Kentish  landscape. 
This  was  enough.  He  eagerly  sped  thither,  taking  a  beau- 
tiful cottage  atxmt  two  miles  from  the  Bay — a  cottage 
buried  in  ivy,  and  encompassed  by  glowing  parterres.  A 
pony  and  chaise  for  the  green  lanes — for  he  could  not  walk 
far — and  here  was  enough  to  enjoy  the  summer.  Let  us 
include  some  magnificent  strawberry  beds  on  a  farmer's 
grounds  opposite ;  and  Henry  Mayhew,  deep  in  a  great 
dictionary  at  a  farm  house  near  at  hand,  whence  he  strode 
across  fields,  as  the  sun  touched  the  western  horizon,  pipe  in 
mouth,  to  talk  of  books  and  men  ;  and  a  visit  now  and  then 
from  London  ; — and  the  picture  is  complete.  It  dwells  in 
my  memory — as  a  very  sunny  picture  too.  Our  happy  ex- 
cursions to  Grove  Ferry ;  our  jaunt  to  Canterbury  ;  that 
wondrous  evening  of  games  in  a  near  village,  including  jump- 
ing in  sacks,  &c,  the  prizes  given  by  Douglas  Jerrold  and 
friends  ; — all  make  up  an  unclouded,  hearty  summer.  Closed, 
alas  !  like  the  last,  in  sickness. 

Mr.  Dickens  was,  it  would  appear,  among  the  friends 
whom  Douglas  Jerrold  endeavoured  to  tempt  to  his  cottage. 
Here  is  some  gossip  he  sent  to  his  friend  from  his  Kentish 
snuggery  :— 

"My  dear  Dickens, 

"  I  write  from  a  little  cabin,  built  up  of  ivy  and  wood- 
bine, and  almost  within  sound  of  the  sea.  Here  I  have  brought 
my  wife  and  daughter,  and  have  already  the  assurance  that 
country  air,  and  sounds,  and  sights  will  soon  recover  them. 

"  I  have  little  more  than  a  nodding  acquaintance  with  Maclise, 
and  therefore  send  the  inclosed  to  him  through  you.  I  cut  it  out 
of  the  Times  last  summer  in  France,  with  the  intention  of  for- 
warding it.  Since  then  it  has  been  mislaid,  and  has  only  turned 
up  to-day  with  other  papers.  It  appears  to  me  to  contain  an 
admirable  subject  for  a  painter;  and  for  whom  so  specially  as 
Maclise  ?     What  an  annoyance,  too,  it  is  to  know  that  good 


OUT  OF  TOWN.  2S1 

subjects,  like  the  hidden  hoards  of  the  buried,  are  lying  about, 
if  we  only  knew  where  to  light  upon  them.  This,  to  be  sure,  is 
only  annoying  to  those  who  want  subjects  or  money  ;  and  then, 
again,  of  these  Maclise  is  not.  Nevertheless,  upon  the  fine 
worldly  principle  of  leaving  10/.  legacies  to  Croesus,  I  send  the 
inclosed  to  Mr.  M.  I  am  about  to  take  advantage  of  the  leisure 
of  country  life,  and  the  inspiration  of  a  glorious  garden,  to 
finish  a  comedy  begun  last  summer,  and  to  which  rheumatism 
wrote,  '  To  be  continued,'  when  rheumatism,  like  a  despotic  edi- 
tor, should  think  fit.  By  the  way,  did  they  forward  to  you  this 
month's  Illuminated  Magazine  ?  I  desired  them  to  do  so.  As  for 
1  illuminations,'  you  have,  of  course,  seen  the  dying  lamps  on  a 
royal  birthday  night,  with  the  R  burned  down  to  a  P,  and  the 
"W's  very  dingy  Ws  indeed,  even  for  the  time  of  the  morning. 
The  '  illuminations '  in  my  magazine  were  very  like  these.  No 
enthusiastic  lamplighter  was  ever  more  deceived  by  cotton  wicks 
and  train  oil,  than  I  by  the  printer.  However,  I  hope  in  another 
month  we  shall  be  able  to  burn  gas." 

Mr.  Dickens  replies  : — ■ 

"  Heme  Bay.  Hum !  I  suppose  it's  no  worse  than  any  other 
place  in  this  weather ;  but  it  is  watery,  rather,  isn't  it  ?  In  my 
mind's  eye,  I  have  the  sea  in  a  perpetual  state  of  small-pox,  and 
the  chalk  running  downhill  like  town  milk.  But  I  know  the 
comfort  of  getting  to  work  '  in  a  fresh  place,'  and  proposing 
pious  projects  to  one's  self,  and  having  the  more  substantial 
advantage  of  going  to  bed  early,  and  getting  up  ditto,  and 
walking  about  alone.  If  there  were  a  fine  day,  I  should  like  to 
deprive  you  of  the  last-named  happiness,  and  to  take  a  good 
long  stroll." 

But  the  fine  day  never  came,  and  the  dull  one  did. 
Rheumatism  racked  the  body  of  the  host  who  had  been  the 
life,  and  soul,  and  sunshine  of  the  Heme  Bay  cottage  ;  and 
we  bore  him  away  to  his  London  home,  carrying  him  to  the 
carriage  and  to  the  boat,  in  our  arms. 

Malvern — the  hills  and  exercise — cured  for  a  time,  the 
rheumatism.  The  bent,  immovable  figure  that  left  us,  to 
6ubmit  to  the  watercure,  came  back  happily  into  Park  Vil- 
lage with  a  light,  easy  step,  and  was  most  joyously  received. 


282  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Spring  burst  again:  1844.  "Come,"  wrote  Mr.  Dickens 
temptingly,  "come  and  see  me  in  Italy.  Let  us  smoke  a 
pipe  among  the  vines.  I  have  taken  a  little  house  sur- 
rounded by  them,  and  no  man  in  the  world  should  be  more 
welcome  to  it  than  you."  It  was  a  happy  dream  to  the  in- 
cipient of  these  words,  even  to  think  in  sleep,  that  he  might 
reach  Italy.  How  he  pondered — fought  with  himself,  tried 
with  all  his  might  to  see  his  way  clear  ;  but  no,  the  daily 
chains  lay  hard  and  cold — it  could  not  be,  now,  at  any  rate. 
Then  again  from  Cremona,  (November,  1844)  the  same 
tempter  writes  : — 

' '  You  rather  entertained  the  notion  once,  of  coming  to  see 
me  at  Genoa.  I  shall  return  straight  on  the  9th  of  December, 
Limiting  my  stay  in  town  to  one  week.  Now,  couldn't  you  come 
back  with  me  ?  The  journey  that  way  is  very  cheap,  costing 
little  more  than  12/.,  and  I  am  sure  the  gratification  to  you 
would  be  high.  I  am  lodged  in  quite  a  wonderful  place,  and 
would  put  you  in  a  painted  room  as  big  as  a  church,  and  much 
more  comfortable.  There  are  pens  and  ink  upon  the  premises  ; 
orange  trees,  gardens,  battledores  and  shuttlecocks,  rousing 
wood  fires  for  evenings,  and  a  welcome  worth  having.     *     *     * 

' '  Come  !  Letter  from  a  gentleman  in  Italy  to  Bradbury  and 
Evans  in  London.  Letter  from  a  gentleman  in  a  country  gone 
to  sleep,  to  a  gentleman  in  a  country  that  would  go  to  sleep  too, 
and  never  wake  again,  if  some  people  had  their  way.  You  can 
work  in  Genoa — the  house  is  used  to  it :  it  is  exactly  a  week's 
post.  Have  that  portmanteau  looked  to,  and  when  we  meet  say, 
'  I  am  coming! '" 

Very  galling  was  this  letter  to  the  expected  guest,  I  know 
—  a  song  of  freedom  to  a  bird  in  a  cage.  It  might  not  be. 
Once,  just  so  far  as  Ostend,  could  the  midshipman,  who  had 
helped  to  land  armed  men  there  in  1815,  go,  to  meet  his 
illustrious  friend  on  his  return,  and  have  a  few  days'  stroll 
about  Belgium.  He,  too,  who  dreamed  of  Italy,  and  all  that 
belonged  to  Italy !  It  was  a  hard  fate  to  have  longings  so 
iutense,  and  fetters  so  heavy ! 


OUT   OF  TOWS.  283 

In  1846,  again,  Mr.  Dickens  is  off  to  Switzerland,  and  still 
would  tempt  his  friend  in  his  wake.  "  I  wish,"  he  writes, 
"  you  would  seriously  consider  the  expediency  and  feasibility 
of  coming  to  Lausanne  in  the  summer  or  early  autumn.  I 
must  be  at  work  myself  during  a  certain  part  of  every  day 
almost,  and  you  could  do  twice  as  much  there  as  here.  It  is 
a  wonderful  place  to  see  ;  and  what  sort  of  welcome  you 
would  find  I  will  say  nothing  about,  for  I  have  vanity  enough 
to  believe  that  you  would  be  willing  to  feel  yourself  as  much 
at  home  in  my  household  as  in  any  man's."  Could  anything 
be  more  provokingly  tempting  to  a  man  tired  of  London, 
and  panting  ever  for  new  air — with  longing  eyes,  seeking  for 
new  scenes  1  But  it  might  not  be.  A  solemn  promise  had 
indeed  been  given  ;  but  iron  difficulties  barred  the  way.  Mr. 
Dickens,  meantime,  has  arrived  at  Lausanne,  and  writes  that 
he  will  be  ready  for  his  guest  in  June.  "  We  are  established 
here,"  he  says,  "  in  a  perfect  doll's  house,  which  could  be 
put  bodily  into  the  hall  of  our  Italian  palazzo.  But  it  is  in 
the  most  lovely  and  delicious  situation  imaginable,  and  there 
is  a  spare  bedroom  wherein  we  could  make  you  as  comfort- 
able as  need  be.  Bowers  of  roses  for  cigar-smoking,  arbours 
for  cool  punch-drinking,  mountain  and  Tyrolean  countries 
close  at  hand,  piled-up  Alps  before  the  windows,  &c,  &c,  &c." 
Then  follow  business-like  directions  for  the  journey. 

These  reached  Douglas  Jerrold  at  West  Lodge,  Putney, 
whither  he  had  removed ;  and  once  more  sorely  tempted 
him.  He  was  busy  with  his  paper,  and  with  his  magazine, 
and  he  felt  that  these  could  not  be  abandoned  even  for  a 
few  weeks.  Well,  could  he  reach  Paris  for  Christmas,  asked 
kind  Mr.  Dickens,  and  spend  that  merry  time  with  his  friend  ? 
"  Paris,"  writes  Mr.  Dickens,  "  is  good  both  in  the  spring  and 
the  winter  ;  so  come,  first  at  Christmas,  and  let  us  have  a 
few  jolly  holidays  together,  at  what  Mr.  Rowland,  of  Hatton 
Garden,  calls  '  that  festive  season  of  the  year,'  when  the 
human  hair  is  peculiarly  liable  to  come  out  of  curl,  unless, 


284  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERKOLD. 


&c.  *  *  *  It's  nothing  of  a  journey,  and  you  shall  write 
'  o'  mornings,'  as  they  say  in  modern  Elizabethan,  as  much 
as  you  like."  But  all  was  of  no  avail.  Punch,  The  Shilling 
Magazine,  Douglas  J  err  olds  Weekly  Newspaper,  held  the  over- 
taxed author  fast  to  London.  Early  in  1847,  however,  he 
thought  he  saw  his  way  clear  to  Paris,  where  his  friend  was 
still  established.  "  We  are  delighted  at  your  intention  of 
coming,"  writes  Mr.  Dickens,  giving  the  most  minute  details 
of  the  manner  in  which  the  journey  was  to  be  performed ; 
but  even  this  journey  was  never  accomplished.  Only  once,  I 
repeat,  after  all  these  promises  and  invitations,  and  that  for 
two  or  three  days,  did  Douglas  Jerrold  escape  from  the  cares 
of  London  literary  life,  to  meet  Mr.  Dickens  at  Ostend,  on 
the  return  of  this  gentleman  from  Italy.  But  I  remember 
that  my  father  enjoyed  the  few  days  heartily,  and  that  he 
returned  one  night,  bringing  with  him,  not  his  personal 
luggage  (that  was  to  follow),  but  a  large  packing-case.  He 
came  eagerly  into  the  house,  and  bade  me  open  the  case.  He 
stood  over  me,  his  eyes  following  those  of  my  mother  and 
sister.  He  was  as  excited  as  a  child  that  has  bought  a  pre- 
sent for  its  mother  with  its  pocket  money.  Presently  the 
case  was  opened,  and  he  lifted  out  a  beautiful  work  box  of 
sandal  wood,  decorated  with  fine  original  paintings — a  most 
exquisite  piece  of  art  and  workmanship.  He  placed  it  before 
my  mother,  with  an  intensity  of  delight  that  I  shall  never 
forget.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  inviting  our 
enthusiasm.  He  could  never  understand  regulated  admira- 
tion. He  felt  how  his  heart  and  soul  had  been  in  the  busi- 
ness when  he  had  bought  this  present — how  he  had  jealously 
watched  it  across  the  water — how  he  had  left  his  luggage 
Behind,  that  he  might  bear  it  with  him  to  his  home  ;  and  I 
fear  that  he  was  disappointed  with  the  quantum  of  admira- 
tion it  elicited. 

In  the  autum  of  1847  he  was  in  Guernsey,  at  the  sick  bed 
of  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Henry  Mayhew      Away  from  London, 


OUT  OF  TOWS.  285 

even  under  the  most  pleasant  circumstances,  he  was  not  dis- 
posed to  sit  before  his  desk.  New  scenes  created  a  tumult 
in  him.  He  must  be  out  and  seeing  all  that  was  going  on. 
So  in  Guernsey  he  could  write  little.  He  must  wander  about 
the  island,  and,  when  his  daughter's  health  had  improved, 
must  tempt  the  salt  sea  again,  as  in  the  second  chapter  of 
this  book  I  have  related.  Sark,  whither  he  directed  a  cutter 
in  the  company  of  his  son-in-law,  enraptured  him  with  its 
wild  solitudes.  He  laughingly  talked  of  buying  the  island 
with  a  few  friends,  and  retiring  thither  away  from  the  world. 
"I  am  here,"  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Forster  on  the  9th  of  August, 
"  in  this  most  wild,  most  solitary,  and  most  beautiful  place. 
No  dress — no  fashion— no  respectability — nothing  but  beauty 
and  grandeur,  with  the  sea  rolling  and  roaring,  at  times, 
'tween  me  and  Fleet  Street,  as  though  I  should  never 
walk  there  again."  It  was  nearly  so.  Had  not  the  tra- 
veller been  an  old  midshipman,  that  sea,  beating  round 
the  rocky  coast  of  desolate  Sark,  would  have  claimed  him 
and  his. 

Returning  to  London,  he  was  recognised  in  the  railway 
carriage  by  a  gentleman  who  wished — seeing  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  my  father  pointed  to  the  beauties  of  the  land- 
scape— to  ingratiate  himself  by  the  assumption  of  an  equal 
enthusiasm.  But  the  counterfeit  was  plain  and  revolting. 
"  I  take  a  book,"  said  the  stranger,  "  retire  into  some  unfre- 
quented field,  lie  down,  gaze  on  God's  heaven,  then  study. 
If  there  are  animals  in  the  field  so  much  the  better  ;  the 
cow  approaches,  and  looks  down  at  me,  and  I  look  up  at 
her." 

"  With  a  filial  smile  1 "  asked  the  stranger's  annoyed 
listener. 

Returned  to  London  from  the  Channel  Islands,  Douglas 
Jerrold  remained  at  home  for  many  months,  always  full  of 
projects  for  travel,  but  never  realising  them.  He  went  for 
a  few  days  to  the   Lakes  of  Killarney  with  his  friend  Mr. 


280  LIFE  OP  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Charles  Knight,  and  paid  a  flying  visit  to  Miss  Martineau  at 
Windermere  (a  letter  from  the  hostess  lies  before  me,  asking 
her  visitor  to  pass  that  way  again) ;  but  he  carried  out  none 
of  his  planned  journeys  to  the  south  of  France,  Italy,  or  Ger- 
many. In  1849,  however,  he  returned  to  his  favourite  old 
place,  Boulogne,  intending  to  write  The  Catspaw  there.  But 
he  got  into  lodgings  where  the  ground  floor  gave  lessons  on 
the  violin  ;  and  his  work  was  thrown  up.  He  looked  upon 
the  time  spent  here  as  so  many  days  wasted.  He  chafed 
under  the  fiddle  infliction,  but  was  not  altogether  displeased 
secretly,  to  see  a  good  excuse  for  donning  his  straw  hat  early 
in  the  morning,  and  seeking  the  fresh  air. 

The  following  summer  was  spent  in  a  beautiful  cottage 
perched  upon  a  rock,  about  a  mile  from  Hastings.  Fairlight 
Glen  lay  below,  and  the  sea  was  before  the  sloping  garden. 
From  the  drawing-room  windows  you  could  see  Beachy  Head. 
The  delighted  tenant  would  tell  any  visitor  who  opened  the 
gate,  that  he  could  walk  from  his  door  out  upon  the  beach  in 
his  slippers.  More — before  breakfast,  on  fine  days,  he  could 
go  among  the  solitary  rocks  yonder,  and  have  a  morning 
bath.  Then  Winchelsea  and  Rye  were  not  far  off — odd,  dead 
places  to  take  a  mug  of  ale  in,  after  a  good  ride  through 
leafy  lanes. 

The  summer  heat  of  1851  found  Douglas  Jen-old  and 
family  at  Eastbourne,  where,  as  related  in  the  opening 
chapter  of  this  book,  the  author  gave  a  sti'olling  troupe  a 
bespeak — here,  where  more  than  half  a  century  ago  his  father 
had  trod  the  boards  ! 

It  was  not  till  the  year  1854,  however,  although  dozens  of 
projects  had  been  framed  and  broken  in  the  meantime,  that 
my  father,  whose  thirst  for  travel  was  incessant,  and  who  felt, 
with  a  keenness  that  was  almost  painful,  the  pleasure  of 
witnessing  new  scenes  and  studying  fresh  manners — that  he 
who  could  never  walk  into  a  pretty  spot  of  earth  without 
wildly   throwing   back   his   hair,   sniffing   the    scent  of  the 


OUT  OF  TOWN.  287 

flowers,  and  exclaiming  that  there  he  should  like  to  live  and 
die — at  last  found  himself  really  and  truly,  in  his  fifty-second 
year,  en  route  for  Switzerland.  Nor  in  185-i  would  he  have 
accomplished  the  journey,  I  verily  believe,  had  he  not  had  a 
travelling  companion  as  firm  of  purpose  as  Mr.  Hepworth 
Dixon.  Together,  with  their  respective  wives,  they  set  forth 
to  see  Switzerland,  and  return  by  the  Rhine.  They  had 
marked  Italy  on  their  programme ;  but,  on  going  to  the 
Austrian  Consul  in  London  for  the  visa  of  my  father's 
passport,  this  functionary  had  remarked  that  he  had  orders 
not  to  admit  Mr.  Douglas  Jerrold  within  the  Austrian 
territory. 

"  That  shows  your  weakness,  not  my  strength,''  said  the 
applicant  to  the  consul.     "  I  wish  you  good  morning." 

So  Italy  was  given  up;  but  remained — free  Switzerland. 
And  thither,  in  the  highest  spirits,  journeyed  the  little  party, 
resolved  to  see  the  sunny  side  only  of  any  fruit  of  travel  that 
might  lie  in  their  road.  My  father  wrote  here  and  there  by 
the  way, — but  short  letters  only. 

On  August  26th  he  wrote  to  me  from  Geneva: — "Dear 
William, — We  arrived  here  last  night.  A  most  delightful 
run  through  Burgundy,  and  by  the  Rhone,  to  Aix-les-Bains, 
Savoy  —  wondrously  beautiful.  *  *  *  Love  to  all." 
Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon  sent  letters  to  his  eldest  son,  of  which 
my  father  was  often  the  subject.  Thus  from  Fontaine- 
bleau  : — "  Godpapa  has  a  great  love  for  trees,  and  woods, 
and  gardens  ;  indeed,  we  can't  tell  if  he  loves  even  books 
better  than  flowers,  of  which  he  knows  all  the  names,  English 
and  Latin,  and  all  the  verses  that  have  ever  been  written 
about  them."  From  Aix,  in  Savoy  : — "'Anything  to  declare?' 
asks  a  pompous  gentleman,  all  button  and  tobacco.  '  Yes,' 
says  Godpapa,  who  will  have  his  bit  of  fun,  '  a  live  elephant 
— take  care  ! '  " 

He  returned  in  a  few  weeks  full  of  health  and  spirits — 
full,  too,  of  the  beauties  he  had  seen.     He  would  absolutely 


288  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

pass  a  winter  in  the  south,  now  he  had  tasted  of  its  sweet- 
ness. As  for  1855,  that  year  should  shine  upon  him  in 
Rome.  He  actually  reached  Paris  in  this  year,  tempted, 
perhaps,  by  the  Universal  Exhibition ;  and  he  went  suddenly 
one  morning,  on  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Dixon,  who  was  ready 
for  the  south,  to  the  various  embassies,  to  have  his  passport 
viseVl  for  the  states  through  which  he  had  suddenly  resolved 
to  pass.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  he  was  flushed  with 
the  bright  prospect  of  gazing  on  the  Mediterranean  before  he 
died.  He  had  telegraphed  for  his  wife  and  daughter  to  come 
to  Paris  and  bid  him  good-by — he  would  not  go  without. 
We  all  went  to  bed  that  night  vei-y  early,  for  there  remained 
much  to  be  done  on  the  morrow,  in  the  evening  of  which  the 
two  travellers  were  to  proceed  on  their  journey.  But  the 
sunrise  brought  wet  weather,  and  the  wet  weather  a  change 
in  the  temperament  of  Douglas  Jerrold.  He  could  not  help 
it — weather  had  an  irrepressible  effect  upon  him.  No,  he 
would  not  go  to  Rome  ;  he  would  return  to  Boulogne.  In 
vain  it  was  represented  to  him  that  so  good  an  opportunity 
might  not  occur  again  ;  the  rain  poured  down,  and  he 
turned  the  horses'  heads  towards  the  Northern  Railway 
Terminus. 

He  was  in  Boulogne  again.  And  hither  was  he  destined 
to  come  during  the  next  two  summers.  One  or  two  more 
picnics  in  the  pretty  valley  near  at  hand  ;  a  few  more  rubbers 
at  whist  with  M.  Bonnefoy ;  a  few  more  quiet,  peaceful 
months  of  early  rising,  and  early  sleep,  and  cheerful  gossip 
upon  the  port ;  badinage  with  the  market-women ;  some 
dear  old  friends  again  to  taste  Virginie's  excellent  cuisine  ; 
and  then,  after  a  Beckett's  death  in  the  autumn  of  1856, 
home  : — for  now  there  is  the  atmosphere  of  a  chax*nel-house 
about  the  place  to  sensitive  Douglas  Jerrold.  He  would 
never  tarry  in  Boulogne  again.  Not  there  should  his  future 
summers  be  passed,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Forster.  Not  there,  in 
truth. 


OFT   OF  TOWN.  289 

Dreams  of  sunny  Rome — pictures  of  happy  Nice  and  its 
orange  trees — hopes  that  still  the  streets  of  Florence  may  be 
trod — longings  to  stand  upon  English  oak  dancing  upon  the 
Mediterranean — all  fade  as  the  Folkestone  boat,  this  heavy 
autumn  afternoon  in  1856,  bears  the  sad  author  to  his 
English  home.     He  shall  cross  that  channel  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CLUBS. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Covent  Garden  has  been,  and  is, 
sacred  to  clubs — from  the  "  Finish,"  frequented  by  George 
IV..  down  to  the  pleasant  social  meetings  still  held  within 
its  cheerful  precincts.  It  has  been  made  a  place  of  pleasant 
memories  by  Wycherley,  who  dwelt  in  Bow  Street,  hard  by  ; 
by  Sheridan  ;  by  vocal  Captain  Morris.  Here  have  more 
hearty  intellectual  nights  been  spent  than  in  any  other  part 
of  London.  Names  of  happy  memory  throng  upon  you  as 
you  walk  about  the  byways  of  the  old  market.  Under  the 
Piazzas  jtou  may  almost  hope  to  hear  the  echoes  of  hearty 
laughter.  Most  pleasant,  most  intellectual  and  refined  con- 
verse, and  wise  merriment,  keep  the  old  spot  cheerful  now-a- 
days. 

It  was  near  here  that,  about  thirty- four  years  ago,  some 
young  men  met,  the  spirit  that  brought  them  together 
being  Shakspeare  !  Very  young,  not  rich,  working  with 
patient  earnestness  towards  a  future  of  which  they  had  great 
dreams.  They  had  a  simple  room  in  an  humble  tavern  (the 
Wrekin),  where  the}-  talked  and  read.  Shakspeare  was  the 
common  idol ;  and  it  was  a  regulation  of  this  club  that  some 
paper,  or  poem,  or  conceit,  bearing  upon  Shakspeare,  should 
be  contributed  by  each  member.  A  fair-haired,  boyish- 
looking  young  man  was  introduced  to  the  company  about 
the  end  of  1824.  He  was  soon  joined  by  an  intimate  friend 
of  his.     The  pair  were  Douglas  Jerrold  and  Laman  Blan- 


CLUBS.  291 

chard.  They  had  their  enthusiasm  for  the  great  bard,  and 
they  could  make  their  offering,  Douglas  Jerrold  had  even  a 
name  for  the  club.  It  should  be  called  The  Mulberries. 
Agreed  !  The  book  of  contributions  to  be  written  by 
members  should  be  called  Mulberry  Leaves.  Agreed 
again  !  In  the  list  of  ayes  were  the  names  of  William 
Godwin ;  Kenny  Meadows,  the  future  illustrator  of  Shak- 
speare ;  William  H.  Elton,  the  Shakspearian  actor ;  and 
Edward  Chatfield,  the  artist  Mr.  Meadows  is  one  of  the 
few  men  who  live  to  tell  of  the  merry  evenings  the  Mul- 
berries passed.  And  there  are  no  public  notices  of  its 
gatherings  before  the  world  save  that  penned  by  Douglas 
Jerrold  when  Elton  was  drowned.  Then  the  surviving 
member,  publishing  two  poems — "  Mulberry  Leaves  "  left  by 
the  unfortunate  actor — took  occasion  to  say  of  the  club  : — 

"  The  lines  were  among  the  contributions  of  a  society — the 
Mulberry  Club — formed  many  years  since,  drawn  into  a  circle 
by  the  name  of  Shakspeare.  Of  that  society  William  Elton 
was  an  honoured  and  honouring  member.  Noble  men  had 
already  dropped  from  that  circle.  The  frank,  cordial-hearted 
William  Godwin,  with  an  unfolded  genius  worthy  of  his  name, 
was  .smitten  by  the  cholera.  Edward  Chatfield,  on  the  thres- 
hold of  a  painter's  fame,  withered  slowly  into  death.    *     *     * 

"  The  society  in  which  these  poems  were  produced  is  now 
dissolved.  In  its  early  strength,  it  numbered  some  who,  whatever 
may  have  been,  or  may  yet  be,  their  success  in  life,  cannot  look 
back  to  that  society  of  kindred  thoughts  and  sympathising  hopes 
without  a  sweetened  memory — without  the  touches  of  an  old 
affection.  My  early  boy-friend,  LAMAN  Blanchard,  and 
K'kxxy  Meadows,  a  dear  friend  too,  whose  names  have  become 
musical  in  the  world's  ear,  were  of  that  society — of  that  knot  of 
and  jocund  nun,  then  unknown,  but  gaily  struggling. 

"I  have  givenaplaceinthe.se  pages"  [The Illuminated  Maga- 
zine) "  to  the  following  poems,  not,  it  will  be  believed,  in  a 
huckstering  spirit,  to  call  morbid  curiosity  to  the  verses  of  a 
drowned  actor,  but  as  illustrative  of  the  graceful  intelligence  of 
the  mind  of  one,  for  whose  fate  the  world  has  shown  so  just  a 
sympathy.    Poor  Elton  !    He  was  one  of  the  men  whose  walk  i:t 


292  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

life  is  nearly  always  in  the  shade.  Few  and  flickering  were  the 
beams  upon  his  path.  The  accident  that  led  to  the  closing  of 
his  life  was  only  of  the  same  sad  colour  as  his  life  itself.  He 
was  to  have  embarked  in  a  vessel  bound  direct  for  London.  She 
had  sailed  only  half  an  hour  before,  and  he  stepped  aboard  * 
that  death-ship,  the  Pegasus.  If,  however,  the  worldly  suc- 
cesses of  Elton  were  not  equal  to  his  deserts,  he  had  a  refined 
taste  and  a  true  love  of  literature — qualities  that  '  make  a  sun- 
shine in  a  shady  place,'  diminishing  the  gloom  of  fortune.  As 
an  actor,  Elton  had  not  sufficient  physical  power  to  give  force 
and  dignity  to  his  just  conceptions.  In  his  private  character — 
and  I  write  from  a  long  knowledge  of  the  dead— he  was  a  man 
of  warm  affections  and  high  principle,  taking  the  buffets  of  life 
with  a  resignation,  a  philosophy,  that,  to  the  outdoor  world, 
showed  nothing  of  the  fireside  wounds  bleeding  within." 

The  Mulberry  Club  lived  many  years  and  gathered  a 
valuable  crop  of  leaves — contributions  from  its  members. 
These  contributions  were  kept  in  a  book,  and  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  the  last  member  who  attended  should  have  it. 
It  fell  into  Mr.  Elton's  hands,  and  is  now  in  the  possession 
of  his  family — a  relic  that  may  be  precious  presently.  The 
leaves  were  to  have  been  published  ;  but  the  club  dead,  it 
was  nobody's  business  to  see  them  through  the  press,  and  to 
this  hour  they  remain  chiefly  in  manuscript.  The  club  did 
not  die  easily,  however.  It  was  changed  and  grafted  before 
it  gave  up  the  ghost.  In  times  nearer  the  present,  when  it 
was  called  the  Shakspeare  Club,  Charles  Dickens,  Mr.  Justice 
Talfourd,  Daniel  Maclise,  Mr.  Macready,  Frank  Stone,  &c, 
belonged  to  it.  Respectability  killed  it.  Sumptuous  quarters 
were  sought ;  Shakspeare  was  to  be  admired  in  a  most 
elegant  manner — to  be  edited  specially  for  the  club  by  the 
author  of  the  Book  of  Etiquette.  But  the  new  atmosphere 
bad  not  the  vigour  of  the  old,  and  so,  after  a  long  struggle, 
all  the  Mulberries  fell  from  the  old  tree,  and  now  it  is  a 
green  memory  only  to  a  few  old  members. 

Douglas   Jerro]d   always   turned    fondly   to   these   Shak- 


CLUBS.  293 

spearian  days,  and  he  loved  to  sing  the  old  song  he  -wrote 
for  the  Mulberries,  in  that  soft,  sweet  voice  which  all  his 
friends  remember.  This  song  was  called  "  Shakspeare's  Crab 
Tree,"  and  these  were  the  words  : — 

"  To  Shakspeare's  mighty  line 

Let's  drink  with  heart  and  soul  ; 
'Twill  give  a  zest  divine, 

Though  humble  be  the  bowl. 
Then  drink  while  I  essay, 

In  slipshod,  careless  rhyme, 
A  legendary  lay 

Of  Willy's  golden  time. 

"  One  balmy  summer's  night, 

As  Stratford  yeomen  tell, 
One  Will,  the  royst'ring  wight, 

Beneath  a  crab  tree  fell ; 
And,  sunk  in  deep  repose, 

The  tipsy  time  beguiled, 
Till  Dan  Apollo  rose 

Upon  his  greatest  child. 


i. 


Since  then  all  people  vow'd 

The  tree  had  wondrous  power  : 
With  sense,  with  speech  eudow'd, 

'Twould  prattle  by  the  hour; 
Though  scatter' d  far  about, 

Its  remnants  still  would  blab  : 
Mind,  ere  this  fact  you  doubt,  — 

It  was  a  female  crab. 

;  '  I  felt,'  thus  spoke  the  tree, 

'  As  down  the  poet  lay, 
A  touch,  a  thrill,  a  glee, 

Ne'er  felt  before  that  day. 
Along  my  verdant  blood 

A  quick'ning  sense  did  shoot, 
Expanding  every  bud, 

And  rip'ning  all  my  fruit. 

;  '  What  sounds  did  move  the  air, 
Around  me  and  above  ! 
The  yell  of  mad  despair, 
The  burning  sigh  of  love  ! 


294  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Ambition,  guilt-possess'd, 

Suspicion  on  the  rack, 
The  ringing  laugh  and  jest, 

Begot  by  sherris-sack  ! 

11  'Since  then,  my  branches  full 

Of  Shakspeare's  vital  heat, 
My  fruit,  once  crude  and  dull, 

Became  as  honey  sweet ; 
And  when,  o'er  plain  and  hill, 

Each  tree  was  leafless  seen, 
My  boughs  did  flourish  still 

In  everlasting  green.' 

"  And  thus  our  moral  food 

Doth  Shakspeare  leaven  still 
Enriching  all  the  good, 

And  less'ning  all  the  ill  ; — 
Thus,  by  his  bounty,  shed 

Like  balm  from  angel's  wing, 
Though  winter  scathe  our  head, 

Our  spirits  dance  with  spring." 

"Shakspeare  at  Bank  side "  *  was  also  the  fruit  of  the 
Mulberry  Club  meetings.  Herein  a  vision  of  Shakspeare's 
creations  is  told  in  few  words.  Scene — before  the  Rose  play- 
house : — 

' '  First  passes  one  bearing  in  his  hand  a  skull ;  wisdom  is  in 
his  eyes,  music  on  his  tongue — the  soul  of  contemplation  in  the 
iiesh  of  an  Apollo — the  greatest  wonder  and  the  deepest  truth 
— the  type  of  great  thoughts  and  sickly  fancies — the  arm  of  clay 
wrestling  with,  and  holding  down,  the  angel.  He  looks  on  tho 
skull  as  though  death  had  written  on  it  the  history  of  man.  In 
the  distance  one  white  arm  is  seen  above  the  tide,  clutching  at 
the  branches  of  a  willow  '  growing  askant  a  brook.' 

"Now  there  are  sweet,  fitful  noises  in  the  air:  a  shaggy 
monster,  his  lips  glued  to  a  bottle,  his  eyes  scarlet  with  wine- 
wine  throbbing  in  the  very  soles  of  his  feet — heaves  and  rolls 
along,  mocked  at  by  a  sparkling  creature  couched  in  a  cowslip's 
bell. 

*  See  "Cakes  and  Ale." 


CLUBS.  295 

"  And  now  a  maiden  and  a  youth.,  an  eternity  of  love  in  their 
passionate  looks,  "with  death  as  a  hooded  priest,  joining  their 
hands.  A  gay  gallant  follows  them,  led  on  by  Queen  Mai), 
twisting  and  sporting  as  a  porker's  tail. 

"  The  horns  sound — all,  all  is  sylvan !  Philosophy,  in  hunter's 
suit,  stretched  beneath  an  oak,  moralises  on  a  wounded  deer, 
festering,  neglected,  and  alone ;  and  now  the  bells  of  folly 
jingle  in  the  breeze,  and  the  suit  of  motley  glances  among  the 
greenwood. 

' '  The  earth  is  blasted — the  air  seems  full  of  spells — the 
shadows  of  the  fates  darken  the  march  of  the  conqueror — the 
hero  is  stabbed  with  air-drawn  steel. 

"  The  waves  roar  like  lions  round  the  cliff— the  winds  are  up 
and  howling ;  yet  there  is  a  voice  louder  than  theirs — a  voice 
made  high  and  piercing  by  intensest  agony.  The  singer  conns, 
his  white  head  '  crowned  with  rank  fumitor' — madness,  tended 
by  truth,  speaking  through  folly. 

1 '  The  Adriatic  basks  in  the  sun — there  is  a  street  in  Yenice — 
'  a  merry  bargain'  is  struck — the  Jew  slinks  like  a  baulked  tiger 
from  the  court. 

"  Enter  a  pair  of  legs,  marvellously  cross-gartered. 

"  And,  hark  !  to  a  sound  of  piping,  comes  one  with  an  ass'8 
head  wreathed  with  musk  roses,  and  a  spirit  playing  around  it 
like  a  wildfire. 

"  A  handkerchief,  with  '  magic  in  the  web,'  comes,  like  a  trail 
of  light,  and  disappears. 

"  A  leek — a  leek  of  immortal  green — shoots  lip. 

"  Behold!  like  to  the  San  Trinidad,  swims  in  a  buck-basket, 
labelled  '  To  Datchet  Meads.' 

"  There  gleam  two  roses,  red  and  white — a  Eoman  cloak 
stabbed  through  and  through — a  lantern  of  the  watch  of 
Messina  ! 

' '  A  thousand  images  of  power  and  beauty  pass  along. 

"  The  glorious  pageant  is  over." 

Then  there  is  another  paper  by  the  enthusiastic  member 
of  the  Mulberry  Club,  entitled  "  Shakspeare  in  China" — a 
paper  for  which  a  passage  from  Godwin's  "  Essay  on  Sepul- 
chres "*  furnishes  the  motive.     The  passage  runs  as  follows: 

*  "Cakes  and  Ale." 


296  LIFE   OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

"  I  cannot  tell  that  the  wisest  mandarin  now  living  in  China 
is  not  indebted  for  part  of  his  energy  and  sagacity  to  Shak- 
speare and  Milton,  even  though  it  should  happen  that  he 
never  heard  of  their  names." 

My  father  once  pressed  "  an  Irish  gentleman,"  said  Mr. 
Lewes  in  a  lecture — Sheridan  Knowles,  I  believe,  was  the 
gentleman — to  lecture  on  Shakspeare.  The  reply  was,  "  Lec- 
ture on  Shakspeare — on  that  mighty  genius  !  My  dear 
friend,  such  is  my  reverence  for  the  bard  that  I  should  not 
presume  to  comment  on  his  marvellous  productions.  Besides, 
I  don't  know  much  about  him." 

Men  who  have  been  pleased,  wearing  very  starched  neck- 
cloths themselves,  to  fall  foul  of  gentlemen  given  to  a 
Byronic  looseness  of  collar,  may  be  fairly  asked  whether 
social  evenings  spent  by  young  literary  men,  and  even  by 
their  elders,  say  under  the  creaking  sign  of  an  old-fashioned 
tavern,  are  so  very  wickedly  spent  after  all.  Something  ot 
that  merry  wisdom  described  in  the  "  Chronicles  of  Clover- 
nook,"  some  touches  of  the  humanities  practised  at  the 
Gratis,  belong  to  the  literary  clubs  whereof  I  speak.  In  the 
Rationals,  for  instance,  a  club  not  so  highly  touched  as  the 
Mulberries,  still  including  many  intellectual  men,  there  was 
a  jocund  spirit  which  the  Quaker  might  not  understand,  but 
which  had  nothing  coarse  or  vicious  in  it  nevertheless. 

But  with  clubs  of  more  recent  date — with  the  Museum 
Club,  and  with  the  Hooks  and  Eyes — Douglas  Jerrold's 
name  is  most  intimately  associated.  It  may  be  justly  said 
that  he  was  the  life  and  soul  of  these  thi-ee  gatherings  of 
men.  His  arrival  was  a  happy  moment  for  members  already 
present.  His  company  was  sought  with  wondrous  eagerness 
when  over  a  dinner  or  social  evening  was  contemplated  ;  for, 
us  a  club  associate  said  of  him,  "he  sparkled  whenever  you 
touched  him,  like  the  sea  at  night."  That  "true  benevo- 
lence of  wit,"  as  he  himself  described  it  in  Bubbles  of  the 
Day,  "  to  shine   but  never  scorch,''  was  the  ruling  spirit  of 


CLUBS.  297 

club  conversation.  Professor  Masson,  who  was  a  club  com- 
panion, wrote  of  him  :  "  Thei'e  was,  perhaps,  no  conversation 
in  which  Mr.  Jerrold  took  a  part  that  did  not  elicit  from  him 
half  a  dozen  good  things.  To  recollect  such  good  things  is 
proverbially  difficult ;  and  hence  many  of  Jerrold's  died 
within  the  week,  or  never  got  beyond  three  miles  from 
Covent  Garden.  Some,  however,  lived,  and  got  into  circula- 
tion— a  little  the  worse  for  wear — in  the  pi-oviuces  ;  and  not 
a  few  have  been  exported.  One  joke  of  his  was  found  lately 
beating  about  the  coasts  of  Sweden,  seeking  in  vain  for  a 
competent  Swedish  translator  ;  and  the  other  day  a  tourist 
from  London,  seeing  two  brawny  North  Britons  laughing 
together  immoderately  on  a  rock  near  Cape  Wrath,  with  a 
heavy  sea  dashing  at  their  feet,  discovered  that  the  cause 
of  their  mirth  was  a  joke  of  Mr.  Jerrold' s,  which  they  had 
intercepted  on  its  way  to  the  Shetlands.''  Another  club 
friend  of  Douglas  Jen-old's,  writing  about  him  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review,  said,  "  In  the  bright  sallies  of  conversational 
wit  he  has  no  surviving  equal."  Mi's.  Cowden  Clarke 
dedicated  her  noble  "  Concordance  to  Shakspeare "  to 
"  Douglas  Jerrold,  the  greatest  wit  of  the  present  age,  this 
book,  by  the  greatest  wit  of  any  age,  is  dedicated  by  a 
woman  of  a  certain  age,  and  no  wit  at  all." 

"  His  place  among  the  wits  of  our  time  is  clear  enough," 
wrote  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon,  who  also  knew  him  in  the  inti- 
macy of  the  Museum  and  other  clubs.  "  He  had  less  frolic 
than  Theodore  Hook,  less  elaborate  humour  than  Sydney 
Smith,  less  quibble  and  quaintness  than  Thomas  Hood ;  but 
he  surpassed  all  these  in  intellectual  flash  and  strength. 
His  wit  was  all  steel  points,  and  his  talk  was  like  squadrons 
of  lancers  in  evolution.  Not  one  pun,  we  have  heard,  is  to 
be  found  in  his  writings.  His  wit  stood  nearer  to  poetic 
fancy  than  to  broad  humour." 

He  was  thus  greatly  acceptable  in  all  social  literary  clubs 
In   the  Museum  Club,   for  instance  (an  attempt   made  in 


298  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

1847  to  establish  a  properly  modest  and  real  literary  club), 
he  was  unquestionably  the  member ;  for  he  was  the  most 
clubbable  of  men.  He  cared  little  about  pretentious  luxu- 
ries ;  hated  liveried  servants  ;  liked  simple,  solid  furniture, 
and  plain  clean  service,  and  wisely  cheerful  men — men,  for 
instance,  with  whom  he  could  talk  and  banter  in  conversa- 
tions such  as  that  which,  by  the  happy  industry  of  a  pencil 
and  a  note-book  that  chanced  to  be  present  on  a  certain 
evening,  I  am  enabled  to  present  to  the  reader.  It  is  simply, 
as  the  reporter  saith, — 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  TABLE  TALK. 

By  a  disciple  of  Captain  Cuttle,  who  made  a  note  on't. 

A  charming  night  at  the  Museum  Club — everybody  there. 

C.  said  he  was  writing  about  Shakspeare. 

Now  Jerrold  ranks  Shakspeare  with  the  angels,  if  not  above 
them;  and  O.,  paraphrasing  Pope's  line  on  Bacon,  says,  "  Shak- 
speare has  written  the  best  and  the  worst  stuff  that  was  ever 
penned;"  whereupon  F.  says,  "But  then  comes  the  question, 
What  did  Shakspeare  write  ?  Not  all  that  is  printed  under  his 
name." 

G.  Ah !  I  don't  refer  to  the  doubtful  plays ;  I  take  the  best ; 
Hamlet,  Othello 

Jerrold.  Well,  then,  choose  your  example. 

G.  There,  this  is  in  bad  taste — where  Othello  is  about  to 
murder  Desdemona.  He  bends  over  her,  and  says  she  is  a  rose, 
and  hell  smell  her  on  the  tree 

C.  Stop  !     Here  is  the  passage : — 

"  Put  out  the  light ;  and  then Put  out  the  light  ? 

If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister  ! 

I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Should  I  repent  me  ;  but  once  put  out  thy  light, 

Thou  cunning' st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 

I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 

That  can  thy  light  relume.     When  I  have  pluck'd  the  rose 

I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again  : 

It  needs  must  wither.     I'll  smell  it  on  the  tree." 

G.  Exactly,  that's  what  I  object  to :  the  confusion  of  image 
is  only  surpassed  by  the  want  of  taste. 


CLUBS.  299 

Jerrold.  My  God !  You  don't  call  it  bad  taste  to  compare  a 
woman's  beauty  to  a  rose  ? 

G.  Ha !  he  says  she  is  a  rose — and  he'll  smell  her — and  on 
the  tree.  It  is  the  license  of  wanton  and  false  imagery  common 
to  the  early  Italian  poets. 

H.  Your  illustration  is  not  happy.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
Shakspeare's  characters  are  national  as  well  as  individual — true 
to  the  race  as  well  as  to  the  unit.  Othello  is  a  Moor,  not  only 
in  face,  but  in  imagination — in  his  modes  of  expression  as  in  his 
range  of  ideas.  His  passions — bright,  vivid,  and  desponding — 
are  all  Oriental,  and  his  cast  of  thought  is  that  of  the  far  east. 
Confusion  of  images !  His  fancies  are  many,  but  not  confused. 
Your  Oriental  always  gives  his  image  naked.  Othello's  language 
has  all  the  tenderness,  the  fire,  the  sensuousness,  the  multipli- 
city, the  exaggeration,  of  the  eastern  poets.  But  truly  this 
exuberance  is  its  charm.  This  Moor  lives  in  Venice,  among  a 
money-making  people.  His  words  are  addressed  to  northern 
ears ;  yet  how  gorgeous  are  his  hopes,  his  illustrations  ! 

"  0  my  soul's  joy  ! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
May  tbe  winds  blow  till  they  have  waken'd  death  ! 
And  let  the  labouring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas 
Olympian  high,  and  duck  again  as  low 
As  hell's  from  heaven  !  " 

What  grand,  what  impossible  hyperbole  !  Compare  these  with 
the  exclamations  of  Lear : — 

"  Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks  !  rage,  blow  ! 
Ye  cataracts  and  hurricanes,  spout 
Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the  cocks ! 
You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts, 
Singe  my  white  head  !  " 

Talk  of  the  Caucasian  races — here  you  have  them  living,  speak- 
ing, acting.  Othello  merely  meeting  his  wife  after  a  gale ;  yet 
how  sublime  his  exaggeration.  Lear  is  "reft  of  all;"  yet  his 
imagination  never  dreams  of  the  winds  blowing  till  they  waken 
death — only,  indeed,  till  they  crack  their  checks.  In  the  Koran 
you  find  the  same  profusion  of  images,  the  same  exaggeration, 
the  same  defiance  of  logic. 


300  LIFE   OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Wordsworth  was  mentioned.  Jerrold  spoke  of  him  in  the 
warmest  terms ;  indeed,  he  ranks  the  man  of  Rydal  Mount  next 
to  Shakspeare  and  Milton.  "  No  writer,"  he  said,  "has  done 
me  more  good,  excepting  always  Shakspeare.  When  I  was  a 
lad  I  adored  Byron— every  lad  does.  Of  course  I  laughed  at 
Wordsworth  and  the  Lakers,  and,  of  course,  without  knowing 
them.     But  one  day  I  heard  a  line  quoted : — 

'  She  was  known  to  every  star  in  heaven, 
And  every  wind  that  blew.' 

These  lines  sent  me  to  Wordsworth,  and,  I  assure  you,  it  was  like 
a  new  sense.  For  years  I  read  him  eagerly,  and  found  consola- 
tion— the  true  test  of  genius — in  his  verse.  In  all  my  troubles 
his  words  have  been  the  best  medicine  to  my  mind." 

G.  Some  of  his  things  are  good ;  but  he  will  only  Live  in 
extracts. 

H.  I  am  of  your  opinion.  I  have  not  read  him  through ;  I 
cannot.  But  his  " Tintern  Abbey,"  his  "Yarrow  Bevisited," 
and  some  of  his  short  poems,  are  above  praise.  My  objection  to 
him,  as  to  Southey,  is  political.  I  detest  his  principles,  and 
therefore  have  to  strive  to  like  his  poetry. 

Jerrold.  Never  mind  his  principles.  Wordsworth,  the  man, 
may  have  been  a  snob  and  a  scoundrel.  Dear  Hood  once  asked 
me  to  meet  him,  and  I  would  not.  I  hated  the  man  ;  but  then 
the  poet  had  given  me  grand  ideas,  and  I  am  grateful.  Separate 
the  writer  from  the  writing. 

H.  I  cannot  do  that.  I  cannot  think  of  the  artist  and  the  art 
— the  creators  and  the  creations — as  things  of  no  relation.  In 
an  early  number  of  the  Spectator,  Addison  described  his  staff — 
and  he  was  right.  People  do  like  to  know  if  their  teachers  are 
black  or  white.  The  reader  likes  to  give  and  take  :  you  ask  his 
confidence,  and  he  naturally  inquires  into  your  character. 

Jerrold.  You  are  quite  wrong.  A  truth  is  a  truth — a  fine 
thought  is  a  fine  thought.  What  matters  it  who  is  the  mouth- 
piece ?    When  Coleridge  says, — 

"  Old  winter  slept  upon  the  snowy  eartb, 
And  on  his  8miling  face  a  dream  of  spring  " — ■ 

what  do  I  care  for  his  being  a  sot  and  a  tyrant  ? 

D.  I  do  care.  To  me  a  Gospel  delivered  by  a  demon  is  no 
Gospel :  the  orator  is  a  part  of  the  oration.     Surely  the  founts 


CLUES.  301 

of  true  inspiration  must  be  true :  fresh  water  cannot  run  from  foul 
springs.     I  refuse  to  accept  an  oracle  from  a  charlatan.     * 

Jerrold.  I  agree  it  would  be  better  for  the  poet  to  be  a  good 
man,  but  his  poem  would  be  the  same.  The  inductive  method 
is  not  false  because  Bacon  took  bribes  and  fawned  on  a  tyrant. 
The  theory  of  gravitation  would  be  true  if  it  had  been  discovered 
by  Greenacre.  Siddons  was  a  great  actress,  irrespectively  of  her 
being  a  good  mother  and  a  faithful  wife.  The  world  has  no 
concern  with  an  artist's  private  character.  Are  the  cartoons  less 
divine  because  Eaphael  lived  with  a  mistress  ?  Art  is  art,  and 
truth  is  truth,  whatever  may  have  been  their  agents. 

A  jest  ended  the  talk.  Somebody  mentioned  the  Jews  in  con- 
nection with  Eachel,  and  Jerrold  exclaimed,  as  somebody  once 
said  in  the  House,  "  We  owe  much  to  the  Jews." 

H.  told  a  story.  There  was  a  meeting  in  the  City  to  receive  a 
report  from  the  missionaries  sent  to  discover  the  lost  tribes  of 

Israel.     Lord was  asked  to  take  the  chair.     "I  take,"  he 

replied,  "a  great  interest  in  your  researches,  gentlemen.  The 
fact  is,  I  have  borrowed  money  from  all  the  Jews  now  known, 
and  if  you  can  find  a  new  set  I  shall  feel  very  much  obbged." 

Then,  possibly,  members  dropped  in,  and  sharp  shots 
were  exchanged.  Let  me  string  a  few  together  that  were 
actually  fired  within  the  precincts  of  the  Museum  Club — 
fired  carelessly,  and  forgotten. 

A  friend — let  us  say  Barlow — was  describing  to  my  father 
the  story  of  his  courtship  and  marriage — how  his  wife  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  convent,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
taking  the  veil  when  his  presence  burst  upon  her  enraptured 
tight.  My  father  listened  to  the  end  of  the  story,  and  by 
way  of  comment  said,  "  Ah  !  she  evidently  thought  Barlow 
better  than  a  nun." 

Then  a  dinner  is  discussed.  Douglas  Jerrold  listens 
quietly,  possibly  tired  of  dinners  and  declining  pressing 
invitations  to  be  present.  In  a  few  minutes  he  will  chime 
in,  "  If  an  earthquake  were  to  engulf  England  to-morrow, 
the  English  would  manage  to  meet  and  diue  somewhere 
among  the  rubbish,  just  to  celebrate  the  event." 


302  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

A  friend  drops  in,  and  walks  across  the  smoking-room  to 
Douglas  Jerrold's  chair.  The  friend  wants  to  enlist  Mr. 
Jerrold's  sympathies  in  behalf  of  a  mutual  acquaintance  who 
is  in  want  of  a  round  sum  of  money.  But  this  mutual  friend 
has  already  sent  his  hat  about  among  his  literary  brethren 

on  more  than  one  occasion.     Mr.  's  hat  was  becoming 

an  institution,  and  friends  were  grieved  at  the  indelicacy  of 
the  proceeding.  On  the  occasion  to  which  I  now  refer,  the 
bearer  of  the  hat  was  received  by  my  father  wdth  evident 
dissatisfaction.     "  Well,"  said  Douglas  Jerrold,  "  how  much 

does  want  this  time  1 "     "  Why,  just  a  four  and  two 

noughts  will,  I  think,  put  him  straight,"  the  bearer  of  the 
hat  replied.  Jerrold.  "  Well,  put  me  down  for  one  of  the 
noughts." 

An  old  gentleman,  whom  I  will  call  Prosy  Very,  was  in 
the  habit  of  meeting  my  father,  and  pouring  long  pointless 
stories  into  his  impatient  eai-s.  On  one  occasion  Prosy 
related  a  long  limp  account  of  a  stupid  practical  joke,  con- 
cluding with  the  information  that  the  effect  of  the  juke  was 
so  potent,  "  he  really  thought  he  should  have  died  with 
laughter."     Jerrold.  "  I  wish  to  heaven  you  had." 

The  Chain  of  Events,  playing  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  is 
mentioned.  "  Humph  !  "  says  Douglas  Jerrold,  '*  Pm  afraid 
the  manager  will  find  it  a  door-chain  strong  enough  to  keep 
everybody  out  of  his  house." 

Then  some  somewhat  lack-a-daisical  young  members  drop 
in.  They  opine  that  the  club  is  not  sufficiently  west  ;  they 
hint  at  something  near  Pall  Mall,  and  a  little  more  style. 
Douglas  Jen-old  rebukes  them.  "  No,  no,  gentlemen ;  not 
near  Pall  Mall ;  we  might  catch  coronets.'' 

Another  of  these  young  gentlemen,  who  has  recently 
emerged  from  the  humblest  fortune  and  position,  and,  exult- 
ing in  the  social  consideration  of  his  new  elevation,  puts 
aside  his  antecedents.  Having  met  Douglas  Jerrold  in  the 
morning  while  on  horseback,  he  ostentatiously  says  to  him, 


CLUBS.  303 

'  Well,  you  see  I'm  all  right  at  last  !  "  "  Yes,"  is  the  reply, 
:l  I  see  you  now  ride  upon  your  cat's-meat."  The  conver- 
sation turns  upon  the  fastidiousness  of  the  times.  "  Why,'' 
■says  a  member,  "  they'll  soon  say  marriage  is  improper." 
'  No,  no,"  replies  Douglas  Jerrold,  "  they'll  always  consider 
marriage  good  breeding." 

A  stormy  discussion  ensues,  during  which  a  gentleman 
'rises  to  settle  the  matter  in  dispute.  Waving  his  hands 
majestically  over  the  excited  disputants,  he  begins  :  "  Gen- 
tlemen,   all    I    want   is    common    sense "       "  Exactly," 

Douglas  Jerrold  interrupts ;  "  that  is  precisely  what  you  do 
kVant."     The  discussion  is  lost  in  a  burst  of  laughter. 

The  talk  lightly  passes  to  the  writings  of  a  certain  Scot. 
A  member  holds  that  the  Scot's  name  should  be  handed 
down  to  a  grateful  posterity.  D.  J.  :  "I  quite  agree  with 
you  that  he  should  have  an  itch  in  the  Temple  of  Fame." 

Brown  drops  in.  Brown  is  said  by  all  his  friends  to  be 
the  toady  of  Jones.  The  appearance  of  Jones  in  a  room  is 
the  proof  that  Brown  is  in  the  passage.  When  Jones  has 
the  influenza,  Brown  dutifully  catches  a  cold  in  the  head. 
D.  J.  to  Brown  :  "  Have  you  heard  the  rumour  that's  flying 
about  town  ?  "  "  No."  "  Well,  they  say  Jones  pays  the 
dog- tax  for  you." 

Douglas  Jerrold  is  seriously  disappointed  with  a  certain 
book  written  by  one  of  his  friends,  and  has  expressed  his 
disappointment. 

Friend.     "  I  heard  you  said  was  the  worst  book  I 

3ver  wrote." 

Jerrold.  "No,  I  didn't.  I  said  it  was  the  worst  book 
anybody  ever  wrote." 

A  supper  of  sheep's  heads  is  proposed,  and  presently 
uerved.  One  gentleman  present  is  particularly  enthusiastic 
on  the  excellence  of  the  dish,  and,  as  he  throws  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  exclaims  "  Well,  sheep's  heads  for  ever, 
say  I  !  " 


304  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Jerrold.     "  There's  egotism  !  " 

In  rapid  retort  of  this  description  I  believe  my  father  was 
held,  even  by  his  enemies,  to  be  without  a  rival.  I  have 
endeavoured  to  arrange  some  of  the  more  remarkable  of  his 
sallies  and  witticisms  in  a  separate  volume  ;  but,  looking 
over  the  volume,  and  remembering  the  many  occasions  on 
which  dozens  of  "  good  things "  were  thrown  off,  I  am  dis- 
heartened in  my  endeavour  to  convey  to  the  reader  a  sense 
of  the  power  the  speaker  had  in  this  direction.  I  have 
elsewhere  dwelt  upon  his  appearances  in  public,  and  on  his 
strong  distaste  for  public  speaking  ;  but  I  can  call  to  mind 
many  times  when,  as  chairman  of  small  social  gatherings,  he 
threw  out  graceful  images,  happy  turns  of  thought,  and 
sparkling  mots  that  kept  his  audience  enchanted  with  him 
throughout  the  evening. 

A  dinner  was  given  to  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  at  the  Museum 
Club.  The  task  of  proposing  the  guest  devolved  upon 
Douglas  Jerrold.  He  spoke  fervently,  and  wound  up  by 
saying  of  the  veteran  essayist,  poet,  and  Liberal  politician, 
that  "  even  in  his  hottest  warfare  his  natural  sense  of 
beauty  and  gentleness  was  go  great  that,  like  David  of  old, 
he  armed  his  sling  with  shining  pebbles  of  the  brook,  and 
never  pelted  even  his  fiercest  enemy  with  mud."  To  which 
Mr.  Hunt  replied  that,  "  if  his  friend  Jerrold  had  the  sting  of 
the  bee,  he  had  also  his  honey." 

The  Museum  Club  did  not  catch  coronets,  but  discordant 
elements  found  their  way  into  its  snug  rooms,  and  the  gal- 
lant company  were  ousted.  Then  succeeded  the  Hooks  and 
Eyes.  From  these  clubs  some  of  his  best  sayings  went  forth 
to  the  world.  Here,  when  some  member,  hearing  an  air 
mentioned,  exclaimed,  "  That  always  carries  me  away  when 
I  hear  it."  "  Can  nobody  whistle  it  1 "  asked  Douglas 
Jerrold. 

My  father  ordered  a  bottle  of  old  port.  "  Not  elder  port," 
he  said. 


CLUBS.  305 

Asking  about  the  talent  of  a  young  painter,  his  com- 
panion declared  that  the  youth  was  mediocre.  "  Oh  !  "  was 
the  reply  ;  "  the  very  worst  ochre  an  artist  can  set  to  work 
with." 

Somebody  talked  with  him  about  Mr.  Robson's  wonderful 
"  get  up  "  as  Jem  Baggs  in  the  Wandering  Minstrel.  Pre- 
sently this  wonderful  actor  was  introduced.  "  I  hear  your 
rags  were  wonderful,"  said  the  dramatist.  "  Why  not,  for 
your  benefit,  advertise  that  you  will  play  the  part  with  real 
vermin  1 " 

Walking  to  the  club  with  a  friend  from  the  theatre,  somp 
intoxicated  young  gentlemen  reeled  up  to  the  dramatist  a^d 
said,  "  Can  you  tell  us  the  way  to  the  Judge  and  Jury  1 " 
"  Keep  on  as  you  are,  young  gentlemen,"  was  the  reply  , 
"you're  sure  to  overtake  them." 

My  father  took  the  chair  at  one  of  the  anniversary 
dinners  of  the  Eclectic  Club — a  debating  society  consisting 
of  young  barristers,  authors,  and  artists.  The  piece  de  re- 
sistance had  been  a  saddle  of  mutton.  After  dinner  the 
chairman  rose  and  said  :  "  Well,  gentlemen,  I  trust  that  the 
noble  saddle  we  have  eaten  has  grown  a  woolsack  for  one 
among  you." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    8TH    OF   JUNE,    1S57. 

We  touch  the  end !  We  advance  valiantly,  cheerfully, 
through  the  days,  building  up  rich  palaces  of  hope  in  the 
future — with  most  daring  sight  looking  down  a  lengthy 
vista  of  years  to  come  (and  on  each  year  hang  golden  pur- 
poses, and  pleasures:  —  clustering  grapes,  upon  our  tree  of 
life),  when  suddenly  the  ice  of  death  floats  over  our  summer 
sea,  and  we  are  gone — mute  and  cold,  and  so  much  food  for 
worms. 

When  in  the  golden  autumn  of  the  year  1856,  Douglas 
Jerrold  removed  his  books  and  household  gods  from  the  Circus 
Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  to  Kilburn  Priory,  having  bought  the 
lease  of  his  new  house — when  he  stood  there  in  his  new  study, 
projecting  improvements,  and,  as  he  said,  "weeding"  his 
library — then,  when  he  insisted  that  every  fresh  visitor 
should  go  over  the  house  and  garden,  remarking  especially 
the  noble  bed  of  rhododendrons,  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn, 
that  the  coming  summer  sun  was  to  make  a  glory  to  the 
enthusiastic  tenant's  eyes,  as  he  sat  at  his  desk — in  this 
hopeful  time  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  recognise,  in  the 
warm  and  generous  life  of  the  hopeful  householder,  a  touch, 
a  hint,  of  the  approaching  8th  of  June,  1857.  Every  morning 
found  him  in  the  garden,  taking  a  turn  before  breakfast, 
watching  the  leaves  drop — victims  of  the  frost.  Every 
morning — when  again  the  spring  had  unbound  from  the 
earth,  winter's  icy  girdle— discovered  him,  true  to  his  long 


THE   8TH   OF  JUNE,   1857.  307 

passionate  love  of  nature,  welcoming  the  first  snowdrops,  and 
peering  into  the  bursting  buds  of  the  rose  trees.  There  was 
one  tree  especially  that  attracted  his  notice.  It  appeared 
weak  and  sickly ;  and,  sorely  tried  as  he  had  been  with  the 
rheumatism  during  the  past  twenty  years,  he  went,  awkwardly 
enough,  to  work  to  prop  it  up.  And  he  would,  of  evenings, 
suddenly  issue  from  his  study,  and,  fetching  a  can  of  water, 
refresh  his  favourite  tree  with  a  welcome  shower.  If  in  the 
morning  he  saw  a  green  bud  peeping  upon  it,  he  would  give 
the  news  at  the  breakfast  table.  But  the  trees  were  not 
alone  his  care.  He  would  peer  into  the  aviary,  and  inquire 
about  the  progress  of  the  young  milk-white  pigeons  he  had 
received  from  Chatsworth.  Vic,  the  tawny  bull  terrier — 
savage  to  strangers,  but  to  him  gentle  as  a  kitten — must  be 
patted  upon  the  back  Here,  there  is  a  daily  bit  of  comedy. 
For  Mouse,  who  is  following  closely  at  her  master's  heels, 
amuses  him  by  turning  sulkily  away  as  he  pats  Vic ;  or 
Mouse  barks  at  the  ferocious  Vic — Vic  not  condescending  to 
take  the  least  notice  of  the  angry  little  pet.  Then  there  is  a 
gully-hole  in  the  gravel  walk,  down  which  it  is  the  laughable 
custom  of  Mouse  to  stare  for  the  hour  together ;  her  master, 
with  his  glasses  on  his  nose,  watching  her  from  time  to  time 
from  his  study  window,  and  laughing  like  a  child,  and  specu- 
lating on  the  reason  which  has  attracted  the  little  terrier  to 
this  hole. 

Winter  evenings  are  given  to  friends,  or  to  an  occasional 
e  at  whist.  Over  the  sparkling  fire  dreams  of  the  coming 
summer  find  a  welcome  place.  Every  plan  is  eagerly  caught 
up.  Now  it  is  Portugal,  now  Rome,  now  Nice.  It  has  been 
so  always,  and  is  so  still.  "Next  winter  shall  be  spent  in  the 
sunny  south,"  says  the  laughing  host.     Next  winter  ! 

On  New  Year's  eve,  1856,  a  party  of  very  intimate  friends 
assembled  about  Douglas  Jerrold's  study  fire,  to  see  the  old 
year  out  and  the  new  year  in.  Throughout  the  evening  the 
host  was  the  merriest  of  the  party,  and  even  tried  to  dance. 

x  2 


308  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

His  words  sparkled  from  him  and  kept  us  all  very  happy. 
The  last  minutes  of  the  old  year,  however,  found  the  jocund 
host,  with  his  friends  gathered  about  him,  at  a  large  circular 
supper  table,  in  his  study.  With  his  watch  in  his  haud,  he 
rose,  very  serious  ;  sharply  touched  now.  There  was  not  a 
bit  of  gaiety  in  that  pale  face,  set  in  the  wild,  white  mane  of 
hair.  But  you  might  see  a  deep  emotion,  if  you  knew  the 
spe.iker,  in  the  twitching  of  the  mouth,  and  in  the  eyes  that 
seemed  to  swell  in  their  endeavour  to  drink  in  the  sympathy 
of  all  around.  Very  few  words  were  said,  but  there  was  a 
peculiar  solemnity  in  them  that  hushed  the  guests,  as  a 
master  hushes  a  school.  The  hope  was  that  1858,  at  that 
board,  if  they  were  all  spared,  should  have  his  birth  cele- 
brated. If  they  were  all  spared  !  If  thoughts  of  death  crept 
icily  into  the  marrow  of  any  there,  not  to  the  speaker — that 
cup  brimmed  with  warm  life — did  death  point. 

Dr.  Wigan,  in  his  book  on  the  "  Duality  of  the  Mind,"  gives 
the  following  remarkable  anecdote  of  my  father's  energetic 
will  dominating  a  feeble  body : — 

"  That  mysterious  and  incomprehensible  thing,  the  ivill, 
has,  we  know,  an  important  influence  on  the  whole  animal 
economy,  and  many  instances  have  come  before  us  where  it 
has  staved  off  insanity ;  others  where  it  has  aided  in  restoring 
health.  I  will  cite  a  case  which  is  well  known  to  me,  and 
which  exemplifies  this  action,  although  unconnected  with 
insanity.  A  celebrated  man  of  literature,  dependent  for  his 
income  on  the  labours  of  his  pen — feeding  his  family,  as  he 
jocularly  calls  it,  out  of  an  inkstand — was  in  the  advanced 
stage  of  a  severe  illness.  After  many  hesitations,  he  ventured 
to  ask  his  medical  attendant  if  there  remained  any  hope. 
The  doctor  evaded  the  embarrassing  question  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, but  at  last  was  compelled  sorrowfully  to  acknowledge 
that  there  was  none. 

'■"  What !'  said  the  patient,  'die,  and  leave  my  wife  and  five 
helpless  children  !     By ,  I  wont  die  !' 


THE  8TH   OF  JUXE,   1857.  309 

"  If  there  be  oaths  which  the  recording  angel  is  ashamed 
to  write  down,  this  was  one  of  them  !  The  patient  got  better 
from  that  hour." 

But  did  he  feel  secret,  faint  warnings  of  the  coming  8th  of 
June  '?  It  is  impossible  now  to  answer.  It  is  true  that  now 
and  then  he  talked  of  death  ;  that,  in  an  illness  he  had  had 
the  winter  before,  he  had  wept  to  think  that  he  should  have 
to  leave  the  dear  ones  about  him;  but  his  mercurial  tempera- 
ment bounded  so  rapidly  from  sadness  to  high  spirits — he  so 
greatly  enjoyed  the  first  days  when  he  could  leave  his  room, 
and  he  saw  the  creeping  plants  begin  to  poke  the  pale  green 
of  their  spring  leaves  into  his  window  once  more — that  he 
turned  ever  again  with  a  bounding  spirit  to  the  world,  and 
was  deep  in  its  woes  and  joys,  its  struggles  and  its  victories — 
a  most  human,  impressionable  soul,  still  eager  to  do  battle  as 
before,  and  to  leave  this  world,  if  possible,  and  according  to 
his  humble  means,  somewhat  better  than  he  had  found  it. 

He  turned  gaily,  and  for  the  last  time,  to  his  old  favourite 
haunt,  Boulogne,  in  the  summer  of  1856  ;  and  he  roamed 
about  its  bright  streets,  talked  as  of  old  with  the  merry 
poissardes,  went  laughing  through  the  fruit  market  around 
St.  Nicolas,  or  sauntered  in  the  dusty  lanes  of  the  Wimereux 
Camp,  with  his  old  friend,  M.  Bonnefoy,  at  his  elbow  generally, 
at  whom  he  would  thrust  laughingly  some  playful  anti-Gallicau 
arrows.  He  was  ready  as  ever  for  a  picnic  on  donkeys  through 
the  Vallee  du  Denacre,  or  to  listen  in  the  Cafe  Vermond  to 
the  vivacious  conversation  of  the  camp  officers.  He  could 
gossip,  as  I  have  related,  with  his  loquacious  old  cook  Virgin  ie 
by  the  hour ;  entering  with  her  into  the  trials  she  had  under- 
gone  with  her  parrot,  which  she  had  brought  from  Algeria, 
and  which,  when  her  old  master,  a  Bonapartist,  wanted  to 
teach  it  to  cry  Vive  FE?npereur!  replied  invariably  Gochon! 

This  was  all  very  merry  ;  but  a  cloud  came  at  last.  His 
friend  Gilbert  a  Beckett,  whom  we  had  met  in  the  Kue 
de  l'Ecu,  after  his  return  from  Paris,  only  three  or  four  days 


310  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

before,  died  in  the  line  Neuve  Chaussee.  Douglas  Jen-old's 
mirth  was  at  once  at  an  end.  He  wrote  to  Mr.  Forster, 
describing  the  event : 

' '  A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  since  I  never  saw  a  Beckett 
look  stronger,  more  hearty.  He  left,  in  that  terribly  hot  week, 
for  Paris  ;  and  there,  I  fear,  the  mischief  was  done.  When  he 
returned  he  complained  of  violent  headache  ;  and  this  was, 
doubtless,  increased  by  his  anxiety  for  his  boy,  then  stricken 
with  putrid  sore  throat.  I  called  and  found  that  a  Beckett  had 
been  ordered  a  blister  to  his  neck — determination  of  blood.  The 
misery  of  the  poor  wife  and  mother  between  two  deathbeds  is  not 
to  be  described.  »  *  *  Nothing  could  exceed  the  tenderness 
and  care  of  the  eldest  son — '  c'est  im  ange',  said  the  people  at  the 
boarding-house. 

"  We  had  accounts  three  or  four  times  a  day ;  and,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  I  felt  re-assured  for  a  Beckett,  when  the  boy  died. 
He  never  knew  of  his  boy's  death.  Indeed,  it  was  only  at  rare 
intervals,  and  for  a  brief  time,  that  he  had  any  consciousness. 
On  Friday  I  had  lost  all  hope;  and  on  Saturday,  six  P.M.,  all 
was  over.  For  myself,  from  what  I  have  gathered  from  the 
doctors,  I  do  not  believe  that  his  death  was  produced  by  any 
local  causes :  it  was  the  murderous  heat  of  Paris,  with  the 
anxiety  for  his  boy.  Never  was  a  family  so  united,  so  suddenly 
and  so  wholly  made  desolate.  Competence,  position,  mutual 
affection,  'all  that  makes  the  happier  man,'  and  all  now  between 
four  boards !  We  leave  next  week  (there  is  a  chamel  taint  upon 
this  place,  and  I  never  tarry  here  again),  abridging  our  intended 
stay  by  a  fortnight.  My  wife,  though  made  nervous  and  much 
agitated  by  this  horror,  is,  on  the  whole,  much  better." 

There  is  a  gloom  in  this  letter  that  remained  with  the 
writer  long  after  it  was  written  ;  and  had  he  lived  many 
years  afterwards,  he  would  never  have  set  foot  in  the  Rue 
de  l'Ecu  again. 

He  wrote  a  tender  farewell  to  his  friend — he  penned  that 
friend's  epitaph ;  and  then  he  turned  to  that  new  home, 
where  he  promised  himself  some  years  of  quiet  comfort,  in 
the  midst  of  his  books  and  flowers. 

The  spring  of  1857,  I  repeat,  found  Douglas  Jerrold  as 


THE  STH   OF  JUXE,   1857.  311 

cheerful,  as  watchful  of  his  garden,  as  full  of  projected  travel, 
as  he  had  ever  been.  He  was  out  much  among  his  friends,  at 
Our  Club,  at  the  Punch  dinners,  once  or  twice  at  the  Reform 
(where  he  had  been  recently  elected),  and  in  his  desk  he  had 
the  plans  of  two  or  three  books  that  he  intended  to  write  at 
his  leisure.  Assured  of  the  success  of  the  journal  which  he 
had  now  edited  during  five  years,  beyond  pecuniary  anxieties, 
and  most  popular  in  the  midst  of  a  large  and  continually  in- 
creasing circle  of  friends,  he  had  never,  perhaps,  seen  the  life 
before  him  with  a  sunnier  foreground  or  distance.  How  busy, 
too,  as  the  spring  was  ripening  into  summer,  was  he  at  home ! 
He  had  occasional  twinges  of  pain — he  knew  his  heart  was 
affected  (his  assurance  policies  told  him  that),  but  he  felt  no 
serious  warnings.  The  clematis  he  planted  that  spring  at  his 
garden  door,  would,  it  was  his  belief,  give  an  olive  shade  yet 
over  his  grey  head,  and  drop  its  sweet  blossoms  at  his  feet,  in 
autumns  some  way  off.  I  call  him  to  mind  as  I  saw  him  for 
the  last  time,  upon  his  lawn.  He  was  contemplating  the 
effect  of  some  light  iron  steps  that  workmen  were  adjusting, 
to  lead  from  his  study  window  direct  upon  the  sward.  These 
steps  were  necessary  to  his  comfort.  He  must  have  a  direct 
way  to  a  solitary  ramble  from  his  desk. 

Time  was  weai-ing  towards  the  end  of  May  then.  On  the 
last  Sunday  in  the  month,  Douglas  Jerrold  was  to  be  one  of 
Mr.  W.  H.  Russell's  dinner  party  at  Greenwich.  He  was 
ailing  the  day  before.  The  men  had  been  painting  the  iron 
steps  at  his  study  window,  and  he  attributed  his  indisposition 
to  the  smell ;  for  paint  always  affected  him  acutely.  In 
Thistle  Grove,  Chelsea,  when  his  house  was  being  partly  re- 
decorated, he  was  seized  with  the  painter's  cholera.  Indeed, 
his  sense  of  smell  was  extraordinarily  developed.  On  entering 
the  hall  of  his  house,  he  would  sniff  and  say,  "There  are 
apples  somewhere  in  the  place ;  let  them  be  taken  away." 
Paint,  therefore,  to  this  keen  olfactory  sense,  would  be 
strongly  offensive. 


312  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Mr.  Dickens  met  him,  on  the  morning  of  the  Greenwich 
dinner,  at  the  Gallery  of  Illustration,  in  Regent  Street. 
They  had  been  advising  their  friend  Mr.  Russell  in  the 
condensation  of  his  Lectures  on  the  War  in  the  Crimea  ;  and 
they  had  engaged  with  him  to  go  over  the  last  of  the  series, 
at  the  Gallery,  at  one  o'clock  that  day.  "Arriving  some 
minutes  before  the  time,"  Mr.  Dickens  tells  me,  "  I  found 
your  father  sitting  alone  in  the  hall. 

" '  There  must  be  some  mistake,'  he  said.  No  one  else  was 
there  ;  the  place  was  locked  up  ;  he  had  tried  all  the  doors  ; 
and  he  had  been  waiting  a  quarter  of  an  hour  by  himself. 

"  I  sat  down  by  him  in  a  niche  on  the  staircase,  and  he 
told  me  that  he  had  been  very  unwell  for  three  or  four  days. 
A  window  in  his  study  had  been  newly  painted,  and  the  smell 
of  the  paint  (he  thought  it  must  be  that)  had  filled  him  with 
nausea  and  turned  him  sick,  and  he  felt  weak  and  giddy, 
through  not  having  been  able  to  retain  any  food.  He  wras  a 
little  subdued  at  first,  and  out  of  spirits ;  but  we  sat  there 
half  an  hour  talking,  and  when  we  came  out  together  he  was 
quite  himself. 

"  In  the  shadow  I  had  not  observed  him  closely ;  but  when 
we  got  into  the  sunshine  of  the  streets  I  saw  that  he  looked 
ill.  We  were  both  engaged  to  dine  with  Mr.  Russell  at 
Greenwich,  and  I  thought  him  so  ill  then  that  I  advised  him 
not  to  go,  but  to  let  me  take  him,  or  send  him,  home  in  a  cab. 
He  complained,  however,  of  having  turned  so  weak  (we  had 
now  strolled  as  far  as  Leicester  Square)  that  he  was  fearful  he 
might  faint  in  the  cab,  unless  I  could  get  him  some  restora- 
tive, and  unless  he  could  '  keep  it  down.'  I  deliberated  for  a 
moment  whether  to  turn  back  to  the  Athenaeum,  where  I 
could  have  got  a  little  brandy  for  him,  or  to  take  him  on  to 
Covent  Garden  for  the  purpose.  Meanwhile  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  rails  of  the  inclosure,  looking,  for  the  moment, 
very  ill  indeed.  Finally,  we  walked  on  to  Covent  Garden,  and 
before  we  had  gone  fifty  yards  he  was  very  much  better.    On 


THE   8TH  OF  JUNE,   1857.  313 

our  way  Mr.  Russell  joined  us.  He  was  then  better  still,  and 
walked  between  us  unassisted.  I  got  him  a  hard  biscuit,  and 
a  little  weak,  cold  brandy  and  water,  and  begged  him  by  all 
means  to  try  to  eat.  He  broke  up  and  ate  the  greater  part 
of  the  biscuit,  and  was  much  refreshed  and  comforted  by  the 
brandy.  He  said  that  he  felt  that  the  sickness  was  overcome 
at  last,  and  that  he  was  quite  a  new  man.  It  would  do  him 
good  to  have  a  few  quiet  hours  in  the  air,  and  he  would  go 
with  us  to  Greenwich.  I  still  tried  to  dissuade  him  ;  but  he 
was  by  this  time  bent  upon  it ;  his  natural  colour  had 
returned,  and  he  was  very  hopeful  and  confident. 

"  We  strolled  through  the  Temple  on  our  way  to  a  boat ; 
and  I  have  a  lively  recollection  of  him,  stamping  about  Elm- 
Tree  Court  (with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  the  other  pushing 
his  hair  back),  laughing  in  his  heartiest  manner  at  a  ridiculous 
remembrance  we  had  in  common,  which  I  had  presented  in 
some  exaggerated  light  to  divert  him.  We  found  our  boat 
and  went  down  the  river,  and  looked  at  the  Leviathan  which 
was  building,  and  talked  all  the  way. 

"  It  was  a  bright  day,  and  as  soon  as  we  reached  Greenwich 
we  got  an  open  carriage,  and  went  out  for  a  drive  about 
Shooter's  Hill.  In  the  carnage  Mr.  Russell  read  us  his 
lecture,  and  we  discussed  it  with  great  interest.  We  planned 
out  the  ground  of  Inkermann  on  the  heath,  and  your  father 
was  very  earnest  indeed.  The  subject  held  us  so  that  we  were 
graver  than  usual ;  but  he  broke  out,  at  intervals,  in  the  same 
hilarious  way  as  in  the  Temple,  and  he  over  and  over  again 
said  to  me,  with  great  satisfaction,  how  happy  he  was  that  he 
had  'quite  got  over  that  paint.' 

"  The  dinner  party  was  a  large  one,  and  I  did  not  sit  near 
him  at  table.  But  he  and  I  had  arranged,  before  we  went  in 
to  dinner,  that  he  was  to  eat  only  of  some  simple  dish  that 
we  agreed  upon,  and  was  only  to  drink  sherry  and  water.  We 
broke  up  very  early,  and  before  I  went  away  with  Mr.  Leech, 
who  wns  to  take  me  to  Loudon,  I  went  round  to  Jerrold,  and 


314  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JEPJIOLD. 

put  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  asking  him  how  he  was.  He 
turned  round  to  show  me  the  glass  beside  him,  with  a  little 
wine  and  water  in  it. 

" '  I  have  kept  to  the  prescription  ;  it  has  answered  as  well 
as  this  morning's,  my  dear  old  boy.  I  have  quite  got  over  the 
paint,  and  I  am  perfectly  well.' 

"  He  was  really  elated  by  the  relief  of  having  recovered, 
and  was  as  quietly  happy  as  I  ever  saw  him.  We  exchanged 
1  God  bless  you  ! '  and  shook  hands. 

"  I  went  down  to  Gad's  Hill  next  morning,  where  he  was 
to  write  to  me  after  a  little  while,  appointing  his  own  time 
for  coming  to  see  me  there.  A  week  afterwards,  another 
passenger  in  the  railway  carriage  in  which  I  was  on  my 
way  to  London  Bridge,  opened  his  nioming  paper,  and  said, 
'  Douglas  Jerrold  is  dead  ! ' " 

This  last  meeting  with  my  father  naturally  sent  his 
friend's  thoughts  back  to  the  time  when  they  first  met. 
Mr.  Dickens's  first  impressions  of  his  friend  so  strengthen 
that  estimate  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  character  which  I  have 
endeavoured  to  set  before  the  reader,  that  I  cannot  forbear 
from  inserting  them  here. 

"  Few  of  his  friends,"  Mr.  Dickens  writes,  "  T  think,  can 
have  had  more  favourable  opportunities  of  knowing  him  in 
his  gentlest  and  most  affectionate  aspect  than  I  have  had. 
He  was  one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  affectionate  of  men.  I 
remember  very  well  that  when  I  first  saw  him,  in  about  the 
year  1835,  when  I  went  into  his  sick  room  in  Thistle  Grove, 
Brompton,  and  found  him  propped  up  in  a  great  chair, 
bright-eyed,  and  quick,  and  eager  in  spirit,  but  very  lame  in 
body,  he  gave  me  an  impression  of  tenderness.  It  never 
became  dissociated  from  him.  There  was  nothing  cynical 
or  sour  in  his  heart,  as  I  knew  it.  In  the  company  of  chil- 
dren and  young  people  he  was  particularly  happy,  and 
showed  to  extraordinary  advantage.  He  never  was  so  gay, 
so   sweet-tempered,  so   pleasing,   and   so   pleased   as   then. 


THE   STH   OF  JUNE,   1857.  315 

Among  my  own  children  I  have  observed  this  many  and 
many  a  time.  When  they  and  I  came  home  from  Italy,  in 
1845,  your  father  went  to  Brussels  to  meet  us,  in  company 
with  our  friends,  Mr.  Forster  and  Mr.  Maclise.  We  all 
travelled  together  about  Belgium  for  a  little  while,  and  all 
came  home  together.  He  was  the  delight  of  the  children  all 
the  time,  and  thev  were  his  delight.  He  was  in  his  most  bril- 
liant  spirits,  and  I  doubt  if  he  were  ever  more  humorous  in 
his  life.  But  the  most  enduring  impression  that  he  left 
upon  us,  who  are  grown  up — and  we  have  all  often  spoken  of 
it  since — was,  that  Jerrold,  in  his  amiable  capacity  of  being 
easily  pleased,  in  his  freshness,  in  his  good  nature,  in  his 
cordiality,  and  in  the  unrestrained  openness  of  his  heart,  had 
quite  captivated  us. 

"  Of  his  generosity  I  had  a  proof  within  these  two  or  three 
years,  which  it  saddens  me  to  think  of  now.  There  had  been 
an  estrangement  between  us — not  on  any  personal  subject, 
and  not  involving  an  angry  word — and  a  good  many  months 
had  passed  without  my  even  seeing  him  in  the  street,  when 
it  fell  out  that  we  dined  each  with  his  own  separate  party, 
in  the  Strangers'  Room  of  a  club.  Our  chairs  were  almost 
back  to  back,  and  I  took  mine  after  he  was  seated  and  at 
dinner.  I  said  not  a  word  (I  am  sony  to  remember),  and 
did  not  look  that  way.  Before  we  had  sat  so  long,  he  openly 
wheeled  his  chair  round,  stretched  out  both  his  hands  in  a 
most  engaging  manner,  and  said  aloud,  with  a  bright  and 
loving  face  that  I  can  see  as  I  write  to  you,  'For  God's 
sake,  let  us  be  friends  again  !  A  life's  not  long  enough  for 
this.'  " 

I  am  grateful  to  Mr.  Dickens  for  this  frank  and  tender 
revelation.  It  is  a  powerful  answer  to  the  writers  who  have 
perseveringly  endeavoured  to  present  the  subject  of  this 
memoir  to  the  world  as  a  bitter  cynic.  Let  me  now  turn 
back  to  that  Sunday  of  sad  memories  at  Greenwich. 

'  It  was  on  Sunday  week,"  Mr.  Russell  wrote  to  me  from 


316  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Liverpool  on  the  9th  of  June,  1857,  "he  came  into  town 
(London)  early,  to  hear  me  rehearse  my  lecture  with 
Dickens  ;  and  when  I  saw  him,  he  complained  of  being 
affected  in  throat,  stomach,  and  head,  by  paint :  and  said  he 
could  not  join  my  party  at  Greenwich  (May  31st}.  But  it 
struck  Mr.  Dickens  and  myself  that  it  would  do  him  good 
to  come  out  with  us.  We  went  down  in  the  boat  to  Green- 
wich, then  drove  into  the  country,  and  returned  to  dinner, 
at  which  he  was  very  cheerful,  though  he  ate  and  drank 
very  little.  He  left  about  eleven,  and  went  to  town  with 
Dr.  Quain,  in  his  carriage,  to  whom  he  complained  again  of 
the  paint.  He  was  cheerful  as  was  his  wont,  and  he  left 
Dr.  Quain  in  good  spirits,  with  the  exception  of  the  com- 
plaint I  have  mentioned."  And  not  one  of  the  least  con- 
soling hours  in  that  bitter  month  of  June  at  Kilburn  Priory, 
was  that  in  which  I  read  the  warm  words  that  welled  from 
Russell's  heart  over  his  lost  friend.  "  With  all  the  affection 
of  his  nature,"  said  the  great  Pen  of  the  War,  "  he,  in  his 
newly  sprung  friendship  for  myself,  bound  me  to  him,  and 
this  by  eternal  ties.  I  cannot  ask  to  join  in  your  sorrows, 
but  believe  me  that  my  own  are  acute.  But  what  are  my 
losses — though  a  friend,  such  as  one  may  live  ages  for  in 
vain,  is  gone  from  me — to  those  of  the  family  to  which  I 
offer  my  deepest  sympathies  and  condolence  1  My  dear, 
good,  kind  friend,  I  can  scarce  credit  it."  Mr.  Hannay 
relates,  too,  how  he  had  met  my  father  in  May  : — "  In  the 
evening  of  the  26th  of  May  I  met  him,  as  I  frequently  did 
on  Saturday  evenings,  and  on  no  evening  do  I  remember 
him  more  lively  and  brilliant.  Next  Saturday,  I  believe,  he 
was  at  the  same  kindly  board  (Our  Club),  but  some  accident 
kept  me  away.  I  never  saw  him  again.  *  *  *  He  was 
getting  up  in  years,  but  still  there  seemed  many  to  be  hoped 
for  him  yet.  Though  not  so  active  in  schemes  as  formerly, 
he  still  talked  of  works  to  be  done,  and  at  Our  Club,  and 
such-like  friendly  little  associations,  the  wit  was  all  himself 


THE  STH  OF  JUNE,   1857.  Sit 

and  came  to  our  stated  meetings  as  punctually  as  a  star  to 
its  place  in  the  sky.  He  had  suffered  severely  from  illness, 
especially  from  rheumatism,  at  various  periods  of  life,  and  he 
had  lived  freely  and  joyously,  as  was  natural  to  a  man  of  his 
peculiar  gifts.  But  death !  We  never  thought  of  the 
brilliant,  radiant  Douglas  in  connection  with  the  black  river. 
He  would  have  sunk  Charon's  boat  with  a  shower  of  epigrams, 
one  would  have  fancied,  if  the  old  fellow,  with  his  squalid 
beard,  had  dared  to  ask  him  into  the  stern-sheets." 

On  the  morning  of  the  1st  of  June  he  was  in  bed. 
Vomiting  and  violent  pains  in  the  stomach  were  the  chief 
symptoms,  and  he  was  much  depressed.  Still,  not  the  most 
despondent  of  his  family,  at  that  time,  believed  that  there 
was  any  danger.  Undoubtedly  the  heart  was  affected,  but 
not  to  the  extent  that  would  give  friends  any  apprehension 
of  a  near  catasti*ophe.  On  the  following  day  he  was  not 
worse — a  little  weaker,  perhaps  ;  but  when  I  went  to  his 
bedside  he  had  all  the  day's  newspapers  about  him,  and  had 
marked  out  subjects  for  the  week's  paper.  He  had  even  cut 
paragraphs  neatly,  as  usual,  and  put  them,  in  an  orderly 
manner,  in  clips.  The  heading  of  a  leading  article  was 
written,  too,  in  a  firm  hand.  To  oblige  a  friend,  he  had  just 
written  a  cheque — his  last !  He  talked  cheerfully  of  the 
topics  of  the  hour — gave  me  subjects  to  treat  for  him,  as  he 
felt  he  should  not  be  equal  to  the  editorial  task  that  week. 
But  he  should  be  all  right  next  week,  he  said. 

On  the  Thursday  I  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  making  a  poor 
substitute  for  him,  when,  to  my  great  astonishment,  he 
appeared  at  the  door.  He  was  bent — weak ;  his  face  was 
very  white.  But  he  had  suddenly  got  out  of  bed,  and 
dressed  himself,  determined  to  lie  upon  his  study  sofa, 
within  sight  of  the  garden.  "  I  shan't  disturb  you,  my 
boy,''  he  said,  faintly,  as  he  cast  himself  upon  the  couch. 
His  breath  came,  I  could  hear,  with  difficulty.  He  did 
disturb  me.     1  could  only  look  at  him  as  he  lay,  with  his 


318  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

white  haii*  streaming  upon  the  pillow,  and  his  thin  hand 
upon  the  head  of  little  Mouse,  who  had  followed  him  from 
his  bedroom,  and  was  lying  by  his  side. 

I  finished  my  task  presently,  and  he  asked  me  for  the 
heads  of  the  subjects  I  had  treated.  And  then  he  started 
from  the  sofa,  came  to  the  desk,  took  his  chair,  and  would 
himself  put  the  copy  in  an  envelope,  and  direct  it  to  the 
printer.  The  effort  with  which  this  was  done  was  painful 
to  witness  ;  and  my  mother,  who  had  now  entered  the  room, 
looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  imploring  inquiry.  He 
even  wrote  a  short  note ;  and  then  he  was  coaxed  into  the 
drawing-room,  as  a  cooler  place  than  his  own  study.  Some 
hours  afterwards,  lying  quietly  there,  he  seemed  much 
better.  He  spoke  hopefully — so  hopefully,  indeed — of  his 
recovery,  and  of  his  ability  to  write  his  leaders  the  next 
week,  and  he  appeared  so  cheerful,  that  I  presently  left  him, 
to  return  to  my  own  home. 

On  the  following  morning  I  was  summoned  early  to  his 
bedside.  He  was  clearly  worse  than  on  the  previous  day. 
He  had  said  that  he  felt  his  time  was  come — had  said  it 
calmly,  and  almost  cheerfully.  Mr.  Augustus  Mayhew  was 
with  me  when  we  entered  his  room.  He  was  cheered,  and 
talked  even  rapidly  to  us  ;  and  again  said  that  he  felt  better. 
There  was  a  hectic  flush  upon  his  cheek,  and  he  breathed 
with  difficulty.  The  doctor  still  believed  that  there  was  no 
danger  ;  that  is,  that  chances  were  greatly  in  favour  of  a 
recovery.  But,  from  time  to  time,  the  sufferer  appeared 
excessively  weak ;  the  breath  was  still  bad,  and,  alone,  he 
was  depressed,  and  shed  tears,  continually  asking  whether  we 
were  all  in  the  house.  All  were  there,  and  he  appeared 
content.  So  matters  wore  on  till  Saturday — the  pain  in  the 
stomach,  the  short-breathing  lasting.  Then  the  weakness 
increased,  and  no  nourishment  was  taken.  More  advice  was 
called  in.  "  Very  ill,"  said  the  doctors ;  "  but  there  is 
hope."     To  the   patient,  however,  there  was  clearly  none. 


THE  STH  OF  JUNE,  1857.  319 

"  I'm  going  from  you,"  he  said,  in  a  calm  voice ;  and  he 
reproved  sobs,  adding,  "  It  must  be  so  with  us  all."  And 
then,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  would  kiss  both  mother  and 
children,  and  hold  them  convulsively  to  his  bosom. 

"  Be  quiet,  be  good,  my  dear,"  he  would  say,  reproving 
gently  any  burst  of  grief.  His  bedside  was  never  without  a 
child  to  watch  it.  How  eagerly,  too — I  shall  never  forget 
them — his  eyes  wandered  from  one  dear  face  to  the  other, 
as  though  he  were  counting  them  !  Then,  gently  as  a  child, 
he  would  take  the  medicine  or  the  refreshment  offered  him, 
and  his  lips  left  the  spoon  or  glass  only  to  say  "  Thank  you." 

On  the  Sunday  morning,  after  a  night  of  anxious  wateh. 
ing,  during  which  he  had  hardly  slept  five  minutes,  to 
believe  that  he  might  recover  was  to  hope  against  hope. 
He  would  not  hear  of  the  possibility.  But  still  the  doctors 
— in  kindness  chiefly — put  some  hopeful  coinage  in  the  chil- 
dren and  mother  about  the  bed.  It  was  a  lovely  June 
morning,  and  the  breeze  played  through  the  open  window 
upon  the  couch.  Still  the  sufferer  called  for  air.  His 
breathing  was  shorter  and  more  painful.  He  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  trees  and  sky  he  could  see,  and  talked  about 
the  beauty  of  the  day.  He  complained  again  and  again  of 
the  heat,  but  the  doctors  had  prescribed  warmth.  Perspi- 
ration was  to  be  kept  up,  and  there  was  no  more  painful 
duty  to  perform,  by  the  children  at  the  bedside,  than  to 
resist  his  imploring  look  when  the  clothes  he  kept  casting 
from  his  chest,  were  gently  put  back.  He  ate  a  little  jelly 
— but  very  little.  Still  he  talked  at  intervals,  when  his 
difficult  breathing  would  permit  it,  of  things  about  him — of 
death  too — with  a  cheerful  calmness.  His  youngest  child, 
Thomas,  never  left  his  bedside,  and  moved  him  about,  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman. 

Towards  evening,  while  the  family  were  downstairs,  a 
movement  was  heard  in  the  bedroom,  and  a  minute  after- 
wards my  brother  bounded  down  and  burst  upon  us.     His 


320  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

face  was  convulsed,  and  he  could  not  speak.  But  he 
beckoned  us  to  follow  him,  and  rushed  back  to  the  bedroom. 

The  sufferer  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair  before  the  open 
window,  and  the  setting  sun  threw  a  strong  warm  glare  over 
the  room.  The  sufferer's  breath  came  and  went  rapidly; 
his  face  was  bloodless  ;  and  his  white  hair  hung  wildly, 
nobly,  about  it.  He  was  calm,  and  kissed  all  tenderly. 
Little  Mouse  came  with  the  rest,  and  sat  before  him.  His 
eye  fell  upon  the  little  creature,  and  he  called  her  faintly. 
Then  his  eyes  wandered  hungrily  from  one  well-loved  face  to 
the  other,  and  then  again  to  the  window,  where  the  trees 
were  golden  with  the  sunset.  In  a  sad  lingering  voice  he 
said,  "  The  sun  is  setting." 

Then  he  spoke,  as  his  short  breath  would  permit  him,  of 
friends  not  about  him.  "Tell  the  dear  boys,"  he  said, 
referring  to  his  Punch  associates,  "  that  if  I've  ever  wounded 
any  of  them,  I've  always  loved  them."  Horace  Mayhew, 
who  was  near,  gently  said  to  him,  referring  to  an  estrange- 
ment that  had  existed  between  him  and  a  relative,  "  You 
are  friends  with  H 1 "     "  Yes,  yes.     God  bless  him  !  " 

Then  he  talked  of  his  worldly  goods.  The  effort,  how- 
ever, was  great ;  and,  as  he  finished,  all  about  him  thought 
that  he  had  spoken  his  last  word.  The  doctor  arrived  at 
this  moment,  and,  having  administered  some  stimulants  to 
the  patient,  asked  him  how  he  felt.  He  answered  faintly, 
"  As  one  who  is  waiting — and  waited  for." 

When  the  doctor  presently  suggested  that  he  must  not 
despond — that  he  might  be  well  again — those  blue  eyes 
seemed  to  borrow  a  last  flash,  and  to  express  almost  scorn. 
He  saw  the  falsity  spoken  in  kindness,  and  repelled  it,  for  he 
hud  no  fear  of  death.  Then  a  faintness  came  upon  him 
again,  and  he  gasped  for  air,  motioning  all  from  the  window. 
"  Let  me  pass — let  me  pass  ! "  he  almost  whispered. 

But  not  yet.  He  was  carried  to  bed — the  sun  went  down. 
Dr.  Wright  had  determined  to  remain  with  his  patient  through- 


THE  8TH  OF  JUNE,   1857.  321 


out  the  night.  He  was  easier — but  sinking  now — beyond  all 
doubt.  You  could  hardly  believe  it,  in  the  night,  when  his 
calm  voice  sounded  again  to  speak  of  friends,  to  remember 
everybody,  and  to  send  kind  messages  to  all.  One  child  was 
away — in  America ;  and  he  sent  him  his  blessing.  Then  in 
the  depth  of  the  night,  during  the  intervals  of  applying  bags 
of  hot  salt  to  his  feet,  he  even  talked  of  his  newspaper,  and 
bade  me  endeavour  to  cany  on  his  name  in  it.  Then  he 
would  lie  back  and  murmur  prayers  ;  and  then,  as  the  kind 
physician  hung  over  the  bed,  he  would  cry  again  and  again, 
"  Dear  doctor  !  dear  doctor  !  but  it's  no  use."  And  then  he 
would  ask  the  hoiu- — for  he  had  a  belief  that  he  should  die 
at  midnight.  Midnight  came,  however,  and  the  grey  dawn 
crept  coldly  into  the  sick  room,  and  still  the  sufferer  lay 
begging  for  fresh  air. 

We  cast  the  window  open,  but  this  was  not  enough ;  we 
seized  every  fan  that  could  be  found,  and  waved  them  before 
him.  "  Why  tease  a  dying  wretch  ?"  he  said  presently  to  the 
doctor,  who  was  insisting  upon  giving  him  medicine.  Then 
when  the  breath  got  worse,  and  it  appeared  that  in  the  next 
minute  he  must  be  suffocated,  he  cried,  "  Christ !  Christ !" 

The  sun  mounted  the  heavens  slowly  upon  some  most 
unhappy  people  that  day.  Wife  and  daughters  had  passed 
the  night,  sitting,  sobbing  in  the  dressing-room,  the  open 
door  of  which  led  to  the  sufferer's  bed.  He  could  not  bear 
their  tears ;  but  at  frequent  intervals  asked  for  one,  then  the 
other,  and  clasped  them  to  his  heart.  In  the  morning  his 
sister  arrived  from  the  country.  He  kissed  her — then  looked 
over  her  shoulder.  He  could  hardly  speak  above  a  whisper 
now  ;  but  he  was  seeking  the  second  sister,  to  whom  he  had 
always  been  tenderly  attached.  She  was  not  there.  With  a 
son  on  either  side  of  him,  with  the  kind  doctor  still  leaning 
over  him,  he  seemed  at  perfect  peace — resigned.  Still  we 
waved  the  fans  about  him,  giving  him  air ;  and  still  at  inter- 
vals, he  talked  faintly,  but  most  collectedly. 


322  LIFE  OF   DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

The  dawn  grew  into  a  lovely  summer  morning.  At  ten 
o'cluck  the  patient  was  cupped.  He  could  hardly  move  in  the 
bed,  and  said  again,  "  Why  torture  a  dying  creature,  doctor  V 
But  the  cupping  took  no  effect,  and  the  doctor  went  away  to 
return  in  a  few  hours.  We  were  left  alone  with  a  dying  father. 
Friends  were  hushed  in  the  rooms  downstairs,  listening  for  a 
faint  word  of  hope.  Daughters,  sister,  wife,  were  sobbing  in 
the  dressing-room.  For  a  moment,  to  fetch  something  for 
the  patient,  my  brother  left  me  alone  in  the  room.  My  arm 
was  about  the  dear  sufferer,  propping  his  pillow  as  he  moved 
restlessly.  He  looked  with  a  terribly  e.ager  look  at  me,  then 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed,  for  the  moment  without  the 
face  of  the  dear  boy  who  had  watched  there  night  and  day. 
His  mouth  moved,  and  I  could  read  the  deep  emotion  that 
possessed  him.  He  said  again  and  again,  "Yes,  yes,"  still 
looking  at  me,  and  then  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed.  I 
bent  down  to  listen,  but  he  said  no  more.  Then,  as  I  raised 
a  spoon  filled  with  iced  water  to  his  lips,  his  eyes  for  the  first 
time  wandered.  My  brother  returned,  and  held  him  with  me. 
We  saw  a  dreadful  change.  We  called  to  the  dear  ones  in  the 
next  room,  and  in  wild  agony  they  gathered  about  the  bed. 
For  a  moment  again  his  eyes  regained  their  light ;  he  saw  all 
about  his  death-bed  ;  his  head  leaned  against  my  breast ;  he 
looked  up  and  said,  as  one  hand  fell  in  mine,  and  my  brother 
took  the  other,  "  This  is  as  it  should  be." 

In  a  moment,  without  a  struggle,  peacefully  as  a  child 
falls  asleep  in  its  nurse's  arms,  he  fell  into  his  long  rest,  with 
a  smile  upon  his  face. 

The  friends  who  came  and  knelt  at  that  bedside,  and  kissed 
the  hand  as  it  hung  still  warm  over  it,  and  said  a  "  Good-by, 
dear  Douglas  !"  shall  never  be  forgotten  by  me  or  mine.  The 
stout  men  who  fairly  wept  when  the  sad  news  reached  them 
shall  hold  a  green  place  in  my  memory  always.  The  kind 
friends  who  gathered  about  us,  and  bore  the  pall,  have,  through 
2,ood  and  evil  report,  my  honest,  hearty  thanks  to  the  end. 


THE   8TH  OF  JUNE,   1857.  323 

Even  his  faithful  little  serving-boy,  who  wept  and  begged  for 
a  "  last  look  at  master,"  is  not  forgotten. 

I  will  not  close  this  record  of  a  life  but  as  its  subject  laid 
down  that  life — in  perfect  good- will.  I  accept  the  "  Remem- 
brance "  efforts  of  Mr.  Dickens  and  others — all  angry  words 
forgotten — on  behalf  of  my  father's  famdy,  without  a  touch 
of  rancour  or  a  qualifying  word.  Hands  have  long  since  been 
heartily  shaken  all  round  ;  and  I  put  my  labour  forth,  sensible 
of  its  many  shortcomings,  but  assured  that  not  a  few  friendly 
eyes  will  wander  over  it,  and  give  me  credit,  at  least,  for  the 
filial  love  which  moved  me  to  undertake  it. 

We  determined  to  lay  the  remains  of  Douglas  Jerrold  near 
those  of  his  dear  friend,  Laman  Blanchard.  It  was  a  wet 
morning  when,  accompanied  by  my  brother-in-law,  I  wandered 
over  the  turf  of  Norwood.  There  was  Blanchard' s  tomb,  but 
tenants  had  come  all  about  it.  Only  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  path  could  space  be  found  ;  and  here,  on  Monday,  the  loth 
of  June,  185  7,  we  laid  the  mortal  part  of  a  most  tender  husband 
and  father — of  a  most  generous  and  enthusiastic  friend. 

Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  Mr.  Thackeray,  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes, 
Mr.  John  Forster,  Sir  Joseph  Paxton,  Mr.  Charles  Knight,  Mr 
Horace  Mayhew,  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon,  and  Mr.  Shirley  Brooks, 
bore  the  pall ;  and  hundreds  of  sympathising  friends  stood 
about  the  open  grave,  on  that  fine  June  afternoon,  when  that 
noble  head  was  given  back  in  sorrow  to  mother  earth.  No 
marble,  nor  photograph,  nor  oil-painting,  has  given  the  fire 
that  was  in  that  face  ;  but  the  nearest  approach  to  the  truth 
has  been  made  by  the  graceful  chisel  of  Mr.  Baily. 

Within  two  years  of  that  bright  June  day,  when  I  stood  at 
my  father's  grave,  we  stood — we  who  loved  her  most,  knowing 
her  best — at  the  opeu  vault  once  more,  and  laid  the  remains 
of  her  to  whom  this  memoir  was  and  is  dedicated,  by  the  side 
of  him  whose  life  she  sweetened  from  his  opening  manhood  to 
his  death.  Her  life,  in  truth,  closed  with  his;  and  she  joined 
him  after  a  little  impatient  waiting. 


824  LIFE  OF  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

A  block  of  serpentine  from  the  Lizard,  in  Cornwall  (the 
noble  gift  of  one  whose  name,  to  my  great  regret,  I  am  not 
permitted  to  mention,  but  to  whom  I  tender,  in  this  place, 
my  hearty  thanks),  covers  the  grave  of  my  father  and  mother. 
Mr.  Peter  Cunningham  wrote  me  respecting  it:  "Beautiful  in 
colour,  simple  and  appropriate  in  design,  and  in  masonry — I 
am  the  son  of  a  mason  and  a  judge — faultless." 

I  have  inscribed  these  words  on  the  stone :  "  Sacred  to  the 
memory  of  Douglas  William  Jerrold  ;  born,  1803  ;  died,  1857. 
An  English  writer  whose  works  will  keep  his  memory  green 
better  than  any  epitaph." 


THE   END. 


1ADBUBT,    AGITEW,    &    CO.,    PHINTE11S,    WEITEFGHG 


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